The sirens all are silent from up here
and suffering is hushed, though present still.
She searches for that strange elusive place
where rest can greet unrest and peace can fill
the parched and empty spaces of the soul,
and slow the frenzied pulsing of her thoughts
(the mind can have a heartbeat of its own –
in overstraining anxiously, will clot).
But these slick paths are quiet now: the rain
has drained them of the people who would walk
in other weather. Birds alone make plain
and even song, with interwoven notes.
The ground is all a maze with muddy prints
and places where you can and cannot walk –
these puddled dim reflections of the trees
stare calmly back at her as if to mock
the racing beats of those untrammeled thoughts,
which still persist, by silence undeterred.
Is there not any place to lose the self?
The mind inflicts a violence of absurd
and groundless pain. It does not need a cause.
She watches as the petals idly float
in muddy ponds. A thrill of peace breaks through –
a fleeting gift somewhat resembling hope
Its visitation flits beyond control
Passivity creates – accept the flawed
small brokenness of mostly futile acts
Be still – be still – and know that I am God