to be still
If you stand perfectly still
in the grasses of the arid steppe,
the moon will appear
as a tiny white dot,
just a drop of pearl acrylic;
her glittering mountains
will become threads of
meandering streams;
lamplit cars along winding roads
will romance as ants, rolling
toward the unknown under
the blinker lights of the stars.
adobe homes of every town will fade
along the slimming edge of dusk before
they disappear. only the bumps and bruises
of mother earth will remain.
yet you will attend to her kindly in your stillest mind;
until it becomes a stream and the moon turned to glass.
then you’ll become the shine and glimmer
of a sycamore in the dark,
arcing like a river toward
the flesh and bone
of everything.
Greg Wood is a southern cosmopolitan poet with roots in Virginia and connections to Alabama and Amman, Jordan. He regularly publishes in Dissident Voice and recently was featured in Ireland’s Dodging the Rain and Britain’s The Lake. Greg is the founder of Skylight, a creative arts outreach program that has touched the lives of many across the United States.
Amethyst Review 