Sanctuary

The point is to reduce the world, blot out
What looms all around and concentrate on
Smaller, perfect things which soothe
And satisfy: the breeze which bustles
Through the branches, moss on weathered
Stepping stones, an insect slowly climbing
Up one side of an old rocking chair,
The river's nearly silent flowing, clouds
Mutating as they pass, existence shrunken
Into what's most basic, sight and smell
And sound and temperature, nothing
More. The rest is grim and aggravating.
I will linger here.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 41 times
Written on 2020-04-04 at 19:04

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