It’s the grace of age,
of years spent
living
no matter
how hard you try
you can not fully
prevent wisdom.

I sit with walls of wood
sunlight and silent
but churning
inside
always churning
always chewing
on what the world
gives me
so busy
on the inside
so busy
on the inside
adapting
crafting
making order
assuming
preparing.

So busy, on the inside.

But the walls
remain silent
the sky waits
and the trees
enjoy the waiting
the wind touches
and does not judge
the animals
scury and feed
but are not busy
and the sunlight beams
paint eternity.

I churn.
I chew.
Constantly I shelter
and create the storm
constantly I create the strom
constantly I shelter.

I churn.

And I can barely discern,
barely
as if the mists of my habits
and the fog of my socialization
have a more sinister purpose,
I barely discern
I barely discern
I barely discern
my goodness
but then,
I become sure of it,
because it discerns me

and comes running to me.