THE DOLDRUMS

The leaves look rigid,

without the slight brush of a bird’s wings,

the squirrel’s dash across the limb,

or any breath of air to set things in motion.

Sculpted in place by a lack of wind,

stranded high above the earth’s reach

on branches and twigs with only
the chance of a steady, airborne course

navigated by the tree’s thin arms.

Like a flotilla stranded aloft,

stagnant in stale, upper echelons,

haunted by memories of rugged twists and turns,

of hair-raising dips and roundabouts, and

of romantic two-steps on a dance floor.

Tranquility seems ominous and unnatural

for living things, left afloat in the heat of the day,

stalled with eyes cast towards the horizon

watching for a sudden storm as if clear skies

and calm seas breed the worst of beasts.

Rather than moments of imagination

carved out of wood and set upon a wave

to mark the days of an ancient being,

side-stepped and deserted, on its rushed,

final journey to a rocky shore.

©cmheuer, 2019