What is still?
It’s the ceasing of wind
It’s the cat at my feet
It’s a leaf’s gentle bend

It’s the silence at night
It’s a crescent of light
Where the moon sits just right
Above an earth in flight

It’s a small child’s hand
It’s the breaking of man
When he falls to his knees
Because love had a plan

It’s a snail en route
It’s a flower in bloom
It’s the fragile, green shoot
Where the ground has made room

It’s a smile through tears
It’s a hand held through years
It’s a trickling stream
Filling softly, the ears

It’s the skimming of palms
Over glowing wheat fields
It’s the watching of clouds
And the shapes that they yield

What is still?
It’s the sky at twilight . . .
It’s when blue looks its best
When it’s up against night

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