Possibility of Peace

January 13th, 2019

On Sabbath days there is a tactile, latency possibility of peace
that finds its place down by the creeks
in timid trusting eyes of tiny fish and talks of foods to visit
and abiding ancient women under covered bridges
where the rustling grasses bent by ceaseless breezes
share their rocky courtyards where recliners play with stones.
The light which lingers long caresses water’s rushes
and in no rushing starts to sink behind tomorrow’s veil —
how well that omen patiently awaits disturbance —
it does not prod lest prompted and
we the resters bear no will to see what lies past that expectant night.
We even bear no will to see what lies beyond the now’s horizon:
each sight that drifts before our eyes promises utopia which it concurrently reveals.
No flow is forced though may be dammed and consequently tarry in its travel;
This we are in evening light:
the stream of life meandered into rock-lined pools
constructed generations since by the care-free play of sabbath creekside-goers