A poem by Peter West.
I am caught by a neon lighted cubical each day.
Returning on the morrow with the expectation of my best.
To deal with the political silliness, the schmoozing, the posturing that decides who is better than the rest.
I am caught by people who are not at ease in silence and stillness.
People who dwell amongst the concrete canyons, who rush thru its valleys like rivers and streams.
Never stopping, always moving, running late.
I am caught by a place where the wind rustles through green leaves and iris stems.
A place where a stream is so clear that it is invisible, where blooms of ranunculus sway,
Where the gravel is gold and the bright sparkling stream runs fast and cool.
I sit silent and still, watching, waiting for the dimple of the rise.
I am caught by the river.