We’re all trying to find our measure.

In still black and white,

Or artfully arranged plants in

Carefully articulated colors.

Painted in burnished hues

Or garish, sensual, grotesque shapes.

A line of poetry here,

A bit of soap boxing there.

All in a clamor to be heard.

I’m no different.

I feel the ache to create,

To do something meaningful,

Be someone.

Or give up entirely,

Lost to the fact that

Nothing seems to make a difference anyway.

Give, in equal part, take,

Measure for measure.

Endless cycle of ambition and disappointment.

And yet.

And yet, there is stillness to be found.

There is solace in silence.

In the place between pages,

Where your word breathes life.

And the measures are thrown out

In the abundance of wealth given.

Be calm, o soul wanderer,

Come and drink.

Be satisfied.

Like a weaned child,

Like a weaned child with its mother.

Where my head can rest

And my mind can still.

There you are,

Giving more than any measure can fill.