Marge Piercy



Why is it so hard to be still?

Why does calm evade me

a green snake slithering

out of my desperate grasp?

Green I am sure of: calm

is green with cobalt shining

darkly through. I know the place

but the way in confounds me.

Every mosquito of fear

sings tangled in my hair.

Night rustles against the glass

in dry leaves like water.

Do I fear that if I am still

I will never move, never

rise but crouch, face

buried in my knees?

Do I think if I stop, all

that I value will slide from me,

all I think I am, crack

like a windshield shattered

thousands of pieces

of powdery glass? I court

the still center with

meditation, then rise

running and let the pavement

pound up through my knees

rattling my heart into rage.

Ah, itís me again, charging on.

Copyright © 2002 Marge Piercy.  All Rights Reserved.

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