Still

Stillness eludes,
he who is in constant motion,
his mind a thicket of foliage,
stalks of thought vying for opening,
where they may bask in sun’s attention
only briefly,
before a leaf of novelty,
a thicker trunk,
obscures the blue.

But a train moving too quickly,
blurs the image outside its windows,
abstracts the forest
into only flash
of tumbled green,
fractured brown,
a person only smeared paint.
Lakes lurched and miraged,
only mist.
Life into history,
only memory.

Slow down,
tread idly,
amongst the land off platform edge,
barefoot, mud licking between your toes,
relish each passing sun,
above,
beyond,
the station’s heavy handed clock.

Step into the green and brown,
now solid as unmoving ground,
run fingertips over calloused Oak,
unsmear the paint into form and face,
notice the dew of sleep hung in the corner of their eye,
before they shut,
the feather caught on the leaf
before wind whisks it,
or you,
away.