On Being Still
For all the poetry
there is in motion, there is
an equal amount of poetry
in no motion.
Consider the chain link fence
that marks the playground,
and the stone lions who guard
the sidewalk to my neighbor’s house.
Consider the broken front porch
and the fallen bird bath, the rock
embedded at the corner of the yard.
Consider the lawn that is
always a blanket (sometimes
green, sometimes white)
and the steadfast tree
rooted in the dark earth.
Lisa Vihos
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