A poem
Still PointThere is a still point in the year,
at the height of summer,
when the earth is at the limit of its tilt,
just before returning.
Like a child upon a swing, being pushed to the hilt
swinging closer to the sun, and closer still,
suspended in awe for a moment.
There is a still point,
just before returning.
There is a still point in each wave about to turn.
You can hear it as you walk upon the shore,
There is a still point on a mid summers day,
when you forget about the why or wherefore.
And you can sense a still point in each breath
Just before returning home.
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