An Ode to Indica
Indica, keeper of calmer skies,
Painting twilight behind tired eyes.
You ask no tribute from the weary soul,
Only the chance to become whole.
You know the language mountains speak
When granite chooses not to compete
With every wind that begs to roar.
You simply wait, and nothing more.
You gather daylight by its fraying seams,
Mending the hems of broken dreams.
You fold the hours with patient hands,
Like an old quilt stitched from quieter lands.
The porch grows wider in your care.
The crickets find their evening prayer.
Coffee becomes memory.
Tea becomes company.
Silence becomes enough.
You are not the night.
You are the lantern hanging from its porch.
Not forgetfulness.
Remembrance.
The kind that recalls a father’s laugh,
A faithful dog asleep at your feet,
The smell of rain on thirsty earth,
The first star brave enough to appear.
Storms still exist.
You never promised otherwise.
But beneath your watch, their thunder drifts farther away,
Until even sorrow speaks in a gentler voice.
Indica, keeper of calmer skies,
Painting twilight behind tired eyes.
When tomorrow arrives with its pockets full of noise,
Its sharp corners and hurried clocks,
Leave me one corner of evening,
One steady chair,
One patient breeze,
One sky you’ve faithfully kept,
So I may remember,
That peace is not something found.
It is something
that has been waiting
all along.
It’s My Life 