the boat sits as if the scene were painted in shades of blue
still river, mirroring the colors of autumn
robe-wrapped tree, standing like an old monk teaching stillness
I stare at the flowing river, and, for a moment, it seems still, as the world whips into a wild ride of vertigo, leading me to question all I believe about the still & the moving. Everything that's still is spinning, orbiting, and expanding Everyone who's still is a seven-jetted space monkey on a rocket ride.
“It flows? What flows? the creek below?”
“I know the creek must flow downhill.
I mean how I flow through the world,
or it through me — by force or will?”
“I know when I lie here it slows,
between the bleats and blowing winds,
and I wonder through shaded eyes
whether the world is still in spin?”
I nodded, wandering on, wondering whether the world would stop for the likes of me.