The simple quiet.
How fallen leaves clog the gutters,
how our dirty mop swings from an old rusted
flower pot hanger.
The garage door is
crooked,
sags to one side
like a smirking friend;
it leaks a little,
yeah,
but we all leak a little.
This ample quiet creates a stillness.
Some peace in this deterioration.
Something so natural to be a part of, isn’t it?
like cracking and emptying an egg so we can fill the belly.
There’s a broken sheet
of a double-pane window
on the front of the house that has blood on it,
and it’s my blood;
and much like
a purring and
sleeping cat in your lap,
or a wild porcupine the bear regretfully attacks,
it’s not much of a threat unless
you choose to mess with it;
both the bear
and myself, we chose poorly,
so we must learn
or repeat our mistakes.
Blood having spilled,
like nature
having sliced
her own wrists, because
the bear and I are her;
we are nature.
Sometimes we get in our own way
and need to move over, take one step to the right.
Other times, you give every piece you’ve
got.
Sometimes, for moments,
we sit and intelligently do
little to nothing, looking on to say,
“Well…would you look. at. that.”
Much like a sleeping cat in my lap,
or a bull snorting in my direction,
or a German Shepherd snarling through his fence;
yeah,
I don’t much mess with that window.
art by Christopher Vest