My Dad’s Level

There leans the old level

made of maple wood, with brass fittings,

a liquid in beautiful glass,

a sliding bubble.

I set it gently

atop my head,

balance it,

and try to walk

down the windy path

back home.

 

The tool is heavy,

slows me down

enough to wonder at the

tiny pink orchids,

the black fuzz –

a little slinky catepillar

off to find himself a fairyland

in which to take a long,

transformative nap.

 

When I slow down

too much and turn to look

Inside Myself,

the level tilts, wobbles,

the bubble slides

precariously.

I am forced to return

to looking outward,

keeping the level

Level

Look at the moss,

the dancing blue columbine

that possessively hides its bee.

 

Blog #6