Be Still

Let's turn the knob, kiss the sound of silence, return to a still surrender. The overgrowth of grass slivered in half, herbal scents of Earth fuming out from the pavement cracked by the urban noise. The ancient sayings revisit this truth: that those who hold the pace to a squeezing stop gain new eyes and limbs of joy. Wanderlusting through the field, with stained feet of life's green tincture— as I bend, the scent of grass makes us hear the Earth's symphonic slithering root.