be still little one

for all that we can control,
and for all that we cannot.
with every step, and whim and cry,
i try not to fumble, not to stop.

my shoe soles have been repaired;
"that's five pound fifty dear wee lass"
take no mind of all that is vulgur in this world,
no mind for all that is crass.

In trembling fears and raging fits
i dance upon my bed,
trying not to make a meal
of all the emotion being force-fed.

the quiet moments, the thoughts of still,
that ebb and flow and pass,
caught of light on finger-tips
and protected from the past.

be still little one, be still little soul,
little mind, little feet, little mass.
sit on your bed and practice your catch,
and take no mind of all that is vulgur in this world,
no mind for all that is crass.

- photography by Sally Mann.

- poetry by myself, © 21st July 2010.