Edith Speers: The Flow

The Flow

Mostly it happens outside

hunkered down by a fence line

dividing land into rectangles

or using T-square and tape measure

to cut a straight line through timber

when you pause for a rest

sweaty and tired

with no one around

and no particular sound.

Mostly it happens in the country

and mostly you have to be alone

so there is no conversation

no human interaction to distract you

and nothing in your mind

no planning or reviewing going on

no mental effort

and no gloating or resentment

just emptiness and quiet inside.

Mostly it happens very slowly

a gradual awareness

of something powerful and mysterious

as though the air is clear syrup

and everything within it

is gentle and buoyant

and connected with each other

in a smoothly moving current

whose beginning and end you will never know

Mostly you look around for reasons

but all you find are miniature imitations

the wild flower sweet persuasions

the grass and weed invasions

the slither of lizard or of snake

the existence of anything that makes

a path of curving curling undulations

all intertwined and braided proliferations

and the pattern they create.

Mostly you let go and carry on

doing all the things you have to do

but for a while you can feel

on your skin that it is real

all this profusion of illusions

the flight of birds and bees

the swaying of trees in the wind

the glassy surge of rivers and streams

are more than what they seem.

Mostly you forget until it happens again

but sometimes you stop and wait

to let yourself follow and trace

your place as a thread in the line

your dance as a mote in the tide

your role as a pulse in the heart-beat’s whole

the ebb and flow of systole and diastole

your note in the symphony’s rise and fall

and know you are part of it all.

Edith Speers