I’d find some peace if I just had more time;
quite often now, this notion comes to me.
Not as a nagging fault, but more sublime,
suggesting an impossibility.
But peace is built on just a second’s span
and in that tiny jot of life finds form,
requiring no deliberative plan
except to seek some shelter from the storm.
We think it so elusive that we chase
its shadows, stirring endless clouds of dust,
perpetuating our madness and stress,
instead of calmly waiting in one place,
not worried that our steeled resolve will rust,
or that we’ll give our lives a moment less.
And those great projects we cannot delay,
that we, in endless barter, trade and sell:
these too must pause; their bluster must give way
to quiet lulls and contemplative spells.
For peace cannot be found until the soul
finds in the chaos a low quiet song,
the words of which may seem mundane and droll
to those still lost in the wild, howling throng,
who judge those not in motion as great fools.
With progress, they would manufacture peace
and for a profit, offer it for sale.
But nothing will become of those whose schools
instruct in only war. Until they cease
to use the name of progress, they will fail.
16 FEB 2005
