June 16, 2013

• Tranquility

  

  Tranquility

  She never noticed
  books of poetry.
  Her life was busy
  with empathy
  for those troubled
  from pains scratched
  on psyches from
  neglect, abuse
  or sacraments to fallen Gods.

  She seldom heard music
  except when,
  heartsick from lost love,
  she wallowed in vain misery
  or during her youth when
  hit parades blasted from
  solid state radios
  in dashboards, or from
  jukeboxes flashing
  come hither.

  She thought little of flowers
  nor paused to note scents,
  shades or grace on
  stems of green. Her head
  was busy with
  important matters,
  with day-to-day grinding
  away on work or play.

  Now alone,
  she absorbs whiteness from
  clouds, motion from birds,
  or fragrance from flowers
  with senses dulled by
  age, injury or illness.
  She sifts through her
  moments looking for
  fresh tranquility.

  • 11:22 am
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