There is the stillness of the table lamp
Bending over a sleeping poet
Slumped across his drafts

The stillness of a photograph
The stillness of an apple
Before the crunch

The stillness of a lake
Before the rain
The stillness of rest

The stillness of the heart when she’s at home
The quiet of lazy summer afternoons
The silence of content

The stillness of the window staring down a back-alley
The stillness after the sirens
The stillness of death

And then there is the stillness
Of this pen poised in my hand
Until it is triumphed over by these words

A stillness that has accumulated all day
Like stubbornness of a fierce stain
Stillness before an idea; and a grateful stillness now