Inner Peace

StockCake

I ask the moth how to live and it tells me of the perfect moon

I ask the worm how to live and it tells me of the perfect root

I ask the bird how to live and it tells me of the worm

I ask the trees and they say: child, remain deep

rooted, I ask the bees and they say: kid, never settle. Dance.

Where should I be then, and how should I go? I ask.

I ask the snail that has made a home in my shoe

I ask the skyscraper that houses people like snails

I ask the black eye of the storm, chase my tail,

talk back to the wind, I walk the length of the pier

until I am worn and the pier unchanged, as the sea dances

and remains in place.

One day you will stumble upon the stillness

of the woods after rain, upon that vast and gentle

conversation, sky to earth, and you will forget to ask.

One day you will hold the curve of your own face

with the same reverence you hold for stars, close your eyes,

say spontaneously, silently:        Here.

                                                    A dancing light.

                                                    A locked room.

Amy Wolstenholme