Poem by Dan Stone
Sitting still I fear
has lost much
of its ancient sheen
that posture, practice
once revered
seems largely lost
to the press,
the rush, the push
and shove
of what usually is,
an antique at best
and only
found these days
here and there
on a mat
or a cushion,
a bench in a park
a temple or a large
rock on a too
strenuous trail.
If you pause,
watch the sandstorm
often blowing
through your mind
it’s a singular risk.
You never know
what you will find
in that debris,
what you’ll hear
if you just sit
where you stand,
let yourself
stay with the bird
in your hand,
tune out the two
or more stuck
in the bush
be so still
so not in command
of any bells that ring,
of ships that may
be coming in
that you actually
see clouds passing by,
hear the whir
of the hummingbird’s
blurred wings.
Who knows.
In time you might
see the light—the one
your dreams look like,
the one that gets in
when your eyes close.
Sitting still I fear
has lost much
of its ancient sheen
that posture, practice
once revered
seems largely lost
to the press,
the rush, the push
and shove
of what usually is,
an antique at best
and only
found these days
here and there
on a mat
or a cushion,
a bench in a park
a temple or a large
rock on a too
strenuous trail.
If you pause,
watch the sandstorm
often blowing
through your mind
it’s a singular risk.
You never know
what you will find
in that debris,
what you’ll hear
if you just sit
where you stand,
let yourself
stay with the bird
in your hand,
tune out the two
or more stuck
in the bush
be so still
so not in command
of any bells that ring,
of ships that may
be coming in
that you actually
see clouds passing by,
hear the whir
of the hummingbird’s
blurred wings.
Who knows.
In time you might
see the light—the one
your dreams look like,
the one that gets in
when your eyes close.