Idyll

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Idyll

Details: Thursday, 24 August 2023; Written by Eve Moore; Views: 2523

Idyll

I sit with my tea

in the morning beams,

gazing on the bounty of

my garden, small and brimming,

the blooms, the bees, the hummingbirds,

the petals glistened with

new day shine.

A roar bursts suddenly

behind me, neighboring lawn

being scaped by a crew at this early hour.

My immediate response to the ear-splitting

cacophony is to abandon my perch for

one less racket-strewn inside.

As immediately I feel for an alternative.

[If reflexively, for the groundwork

has been laid deep within

for this reflex.]

Keening my gaze on that which is not

deafening, feet at rest on a favored rock —

mother quartz prized many moons ago from

a beloved spot far north of my idyll — I stay.

Suddenly aware of the magic

act I have performed.

The magic of choosing.

Stillness, peace,

amidst the fray.

A magic conjured

as I recognize the agency

of my focus in a reality that is

ceaselessly vying for its attention.

This is the ‘battlefield,' I see.

Ground zero for what we reckon

as for or against. Given or forced,

option or none at all. Limited,

or a choosing only between.

Sticky wickets that could catch my form

behaving in lock-step with their

warring, dislocating polarities,

ever this or that.

When we are universes,

hosting universes.

Replete with choice points whose constellations lie not only

in the primal astronomy of mind, but of heart

and soul, in truth — conscious or un.

Free-ranging.

As whales know, clouds

and their teeming raindrops,

snow geese and butterflies,

dandelion seedlings.

It is the current and currency, this

choosing, most prized by a world lost to a sea

of distracting objects — top hats, plastic wands —

an ocean of madding tumult:

here, here...

And here. Where I am, and

most wish to be, my

preference.

Still intrusive, the machine din behind

me, motors' mouths gobbling furiously,

it doesn’t intrude on my subject,

my soft, selected focus.

Doesn’t affect the beauty before me —

the wonders of flower

and forager.

Can’t touch the magic I hold,

no wand necessary.

It has no power over

my presence; for I have,

power, in my presence.

A peace that passeth all my

understanding active just

under my awareness

and ever in it.

Disruption of which

is not possible

without my

consent.

Should the uproar be right in front

of me, requiring my attention, I’d

be organically compelled to

engage otherwise.

But as it isn’t

and the morning is fine,

I find myself free

to feast on the

sweet of the

flowers,

too.

“...And that has made

all the difference.”

—Robert Frost, "The Road Not Taken"

∞/∞

Eve Moore: Once a professional writer of advertising, I saw the light & it has shown me words of a different nature. And so I take them down & offer them up. And all is well.

For more of Eve Moore's amazing and heart centered poetry and writings, click here!
http://www.crystalwind.ca/eve-moore

“When the power of love overcomes the love of power, the world will know peace.”
—Jimi Hendrix

This poem/prose was submitted exclusively to CrystalWind.ca by Eve Moore.

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