Quiet Afternoon

Everyone else is sleeping.

Even outside 

the snake skinned stick, 

curled around wires, 

sways in the wind sleepily.

The bristling sun is halted by

trees

wooden doors

and thick curtains.

The living room 

is lit dark

and still-

Enough for 

an idle thought

to appear but not linger-

Enough to 

blur

outlines of

sun

wind

stick

tree

door

and me.

Sometimes

a bird chirps unceremoniously

in the afternoon-

Sometimes

a striped lizard scurries along

a hard wood beam-

Sometimes

the shadow of leaves shifts

on the ceiling-

and then

a thought becomes 

an idea

an idea becomes 

a story

a story becomes 

a poem

a poem becomes 

an agenda-

and then

the stillness breaks.

Perhaps that 

is the tragedy

of a quiet afternoon-

A perfect stillness

broken

when it is known.