There is a kind of magic in things that are very still.
Things that don’t move at all.
Things that make you stare.
Things that are just there,
Surrounded by a silent call.
Like footprints in the snow that aren’t supposed to be there,
Like a portrait of a woman who died long ago,
A frozen frame of time, that you’ve disrupted,
Yet no matter how hard you try, can never be a part of.
Like chairs and potted plants,
And chess pieces scattered across the table-top.
Things that are about to fall over,
Yet always because of some mysterious force, do not.
I am an intruder, forgive my trespassing,
I know not the language that you speak.
For I breathe, and move and live,
Unlike you, who simply thinks.
Thinks about me, thinks about you,
Smiling secretly through it all,
Thinks of things that are just there,
Not really knowing what to do.
But what I think the chairs,
The sofas the plants,
What they know,