the one that felt so strong and big
from sitting blithely in a meadow
to staring over a precipice into – what?
The cliff was always there
but so often out of sight
and out of mind.
our playgrounds built at the top of Maslow’s Pyramid
we stare at them through windows
and sense the spectre
of real, not imagined, scarcity.
of His power made perfect in weakness
in collateral beauty
that begins to grow like shoots
through cracked tarmac.
of safety yet adventure spread
over the abyss
ready to catch
ready to soar to unknown height.
was never what really mattered.
Instead the Man, the God,
who made the waves
who made my soul
and says to both
“Quiet. Be still.”