The world is still.
I hear naught but the tick of the clock.
Tirelessly it repeats itself,
“Tick Tock, Tick Tock, Tick Tock.”
Stillness settles upon the trees
With no more energy than a good stiff breeze.
Not a thing moves about.
Not a bird, not a swarm of bees.
Flowers stand…as if painted in a book.
Everything stands in silence,
Everywhere I look.
The clock keeps company with the warning of my dog.
Something intrudes upon the stillness.
A rabbit? A ground hog?
A sound of soft scratching,
As Libra searches for a nonexistent flea.
But what is this dreaded silence that stands in front of me?
Perhaps I’m viewing a picture waiting to be painted
Perhaps I am viewing my world, previously untainted.
But there! She runs again to growl upon the door!
The stillness there before me leaves a metaphor!
What is this solid substance that begs the viewer to see?
Is this a sound of growing life?
Could I be viewing me?