Rest, indeed, a moment for me,
Silence falls upon the rush,
As if I meditate beneath the Bo tree,
Nature encourages such a hush.
The old sense, the olfactory, the smell,
The most primitive in the brain,
Recalling ancestors’ stories to tell,
The denouement, an insight, to life’s strain.
I’ll float and bubble from tub to sea,
Drifting with the sub-surface current,
The metaphysical has its own decree,
Urging the soul to not be errant.
Rather, choose the self’s company,
A soul at rest in open space,
Reflecting on some sage’s decree,
But seeing it free, ah yes, a grace.
From the water, let me dry with a towel,
And, attend to wisdom from the passing owl.
Francis Conlon is a retired and recovering teacher. For the past 20 years, he has worked as a seasonal river ranger and boat inspector at Yampa River State Park in northwest Colorado. He has published in the local Valley Voice and in Westward Quarterly. He currently lives in Salt Lake City, Utah.