After Meditating On My Front Porch
I again realize that mindfulness is noticing
stillness, how the ink
on my paper has more than
one color of black and feels
fluid as silk. And how the hard plastic wheels
of a stroller across the street,
scraps the gravel, making sounds
like crackling embers.
It’s noticing the stillness of a solitary pine needle
pulsing in the sighing wind. An eternal thing
that must be felt for its own sake. And
the acrobatic foraging of a squirrel
jumping from limb to limb with
unhesitating spontaneity. That spring task
of bringing life again, or the neighbor’s Calico
slouching, preying, lifting each paw as a ninja
would around a corner, and how the sparrows ask
permission from the crows to sing their song,
while above the houses, X-rays of naked oak branches-
like billions of neurons- scatter across a misty film of clouds.
Mindfulness is noticing stillness, without malice, and all
the things I need to do now, reduced to their proper dimensions.