Member-only story
Late Afternoon
A poem from inside my acupuncture clinic
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When the summer sun
barges through the window
past the curtains,
landing firmly on the ficus
sharp leaves casting
bright shadows on sleeping faces
one considers:
If there is a god
it is a god of small things
sliding along the shaft
of a needle as it pierces the skin —
an implosion of subcutaneous sensation
a tiny tectonic shift of perspective —
[it’s going to be okay]
Beyond the round window
a thin maple dances flamenco —
branches thrown upward with abandon
while castanets of colored leaves clap silently
If there is a god
it is a god of small things —
burning in the heart of a candle flame,
looking through the blind eyes
of a Buddha statue on the wall
riding the dust motes
like a cavalry
across the stillness of a quiet room
where people rest
like river stones
in deep water
