Be Still
Feb 25 2011


In the bitter cold
on a winter night
in the middle of nowhere
the world is unnaturally still.
Here, in the frigid depths
of an immense ocean of air,
dense with cold.

The full moon is gigantic,
casting grotesque shadows
of the bare branches
of skeletal trees,
the gnarled trunks of snags.
A ghostly tableau,
frozen in place
on contact.

In the steady light
I can see every bud,
sharp, and tightly wound.
Set since summer, dormant for months
they wait,
patient for spring.
Which has never failed to come;
at least until now.
No animal ventures out.
The snow sits
where it was left by wind,
as if it’s been like this forever.

The only sound
is the crunch of my footsteps
through virgin snow.
My breath disturbs the air —
crystal fog, suspended,
the rasp of my exhaust.
And my mind, racing as usual
lost in thought.
Spinning its wheels like a stranded car
digging-in deeper.

I am a vandal
in this monastic silence,
breaking the vow.
All the initiates
looking up as I pass,
the spell of contemplation
shattered.
Perhaps they are considering the Psalm
where it says
“Be still, and know Me”.
Something about faith, and fate
and surrender.
Or perhaps humility,
letting the answer come
no question.

I stop dead in my tracks
can’t help but look up.
Hours have passed
since I first set out
and the moon hasn’t budged an inch,
its place in heaven fixed
its shadow eternal.
Not even the earth, the clockwork sun
can break this awful stillness.


I mean "awful" in its archaic sense, well as its modern one. I mostly want to invoke a feeling of awe; but I want to temper that feeling with a measure of dread and foreboding.