Song of Equilibrium

 

–after Lars Gustafson

 

I often walk about saying I’m in equilibrium, saying that everything balances,

and I have a little song on my lips, and though its imperfect

it is mine–a forest ditty with words from the age of home made harps.

Of my singing I can say very little, it’s a quiet means of standing

and in this I am not joking. I whisper and murmur 

hold and guess, pause at windows

trying a song of penitence before glass.

If there was more to my life I would say so. 

I wake in the morning, sleep at night, my song unvarying.

When neighbors come they do not hear my singing,

but I’m working toward peace, softest words on my tongue, 

in equilibrium, letting the sadnesses drift

and only I and the dogs can hear them.