How can I write?

The stillness shocks me. If I never went anywhere again—if I never stepped out into the world—it wouldn’t matter.

I would still be here.
Amidst the playful swallows
Swooping like party streamers
Chattering like children.

And the prancing butterflies
Come to rest on the long grass.

Summer is being still amidst it all.

When the whole world is mad with this and that,
I can be here.
Minding no one
and nobody minding me.

Even the distant hum of a tractor cannot infiltrate my utter peace with the world.

The cricket knows.
On and on as my pen moves.
We are not so dissimilar, I think
Both longing to create offerings with our limbs,
Offerings that can make people:

Stop. Breathe. Listen.

But how can a person write when there are butterflies to watch?

I cannot do anything at all, but marvel.