Quietude

I’m sitting in my backyard
puffing from my cigar
watching the sky high up
a blue, jolly, fresh canvas
with an airplane pinned on its skin,
hanging for long seconds there,
shiny, immobile

The air is still, the silence is calling the dream,
a mute illusion of a private reality,
a corolla with tiny, delicate petals
covered in skittish colors

The day is lukewarm
and my neighbor’s air conditioner
keeps quiet,
a caged beast with flesh of metal
and arteries of wires
which sometimes wakes up
with a roar
and tears off the soft fabric of a silent day
with shrieky, painful wails

The wind is out
curled down in a hut with walls of clouds,
tired or sick or even dead,
the tree leaves are all frozen
in a picture not yet painted

And I’m thinking:
all is still,
all is quiet

Then I see myself
travelling through space
with one thousand miles an hour,
aging
with fifty billions of cells per day,
the required speed
to reach my own destruction
in the mere, allotted segment
of my lifetime

And my thoughts travel faster than the speed of light,
in the immensity of a bit of a second
I reach the far corner of the universe and I’m back
to the fume's slender body,
fragile anemone, 
still growing
steady, unaware,
to its own perdition

Could be
that we’re all trapped
in a bunch of blue whitish dice
rolled by God himself,
wandering through space,
roaming the time
to reach a finite destination,
always
in a gambled mark of fate:
double six or double one?

And what if God moves with us,
driving the infernal machine
that keeps the stars in balance,
steering its wheel
to the end of time,
to the end of space,
riding the crowded highway
of a listless universe?

Then I see myself,
a collection of molecules
flying chaotically through the blind, dark outer space,
kept together
by forces stronger than the cosmic turbulence
that give us sense
only in moving
and let us be
only through a coax:
the fake stillness
of a nice, quiet summer day

Oakville, May 2013