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Image from fiddlersfoundblogspot.ca, 2010

Image from fiddlersfoundblogspot.ca, 2010

Momentum builds in the trough
of the wave, not the crest, in the
depths of the ocean, not the
glittering turquoise surface.

Spend less time polishing
your opinion of things, people,
places, events like a servant
in the sub-basement kitchen of
someone else’s manor house,
and more time listening to the
shape and quality of the “no”
inside your head, and you
might become aware that
you’re polishing tin and
it’s wearing
thin.

Monotony, you say? asks
the Universe in majestic, ever-
granting wanting-to-be sureness.

Rub, rub, rub.

Very well then. rubrubrubrubrub
rubrubrubrubrubrubrubrubrubrub…

Our fear of invisibility may be
greater than our fear of death
and so to every thunderclap we
add our peep, lest we not be
heard, lest we be thought
less of, or thought not at all.

Guess what? Mama bird
stopped listening to our
cheeps long ago and
thunder doesn’t care.

The feathered nest we ache for
requires our leaving the fundament
that someone else constructed for us;

and if, after a respectable number
of circuits flown in all manner of sky
one cannot yet swallow that birds
and worms negotiate agreement
in their creating sustenance of
evermore, evermore, then it’s
best, I suppose, to learn to live
with being eaten.

© Elaine Stirling, 2012

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