Becoming Like The Tip Of A Needle Poem by Michael Joseph Ferguson

no one ever taught me to stop

it was always about the movement

and the guilt encased
in remaining stationary

always the next ''doing''

I spindled and wound
my way through life

fearing the very hand
of God punishing
me for not
''doing what I
came here to do! ''

Where are the still ones?

the ones that learned
to hold time lightly

those who can sit
as mountains

or move as slow as
stars - the Great
slow turning
of night sky

those who became
like the tip
of a needle

able to penetrate,

then weave.