Tues., Apr. 7

It's the idea of an earthquake
the shakes your world,
more so when it happens.
If the ground beneath your feet can move,
what is solid, then?
What is secure?
The buildings answer,
shaking down the unquestioned ceilings,
collapsing assumed walls,
heaving the certain floors
up as much as down,
mostly sideways.
After an earthquake, the shaking stops
but the world still turns,
leaving the spot it should have stayed
passing the point of perspective
and keeping going past the place
where you could count on holding strongly
to a secure position.
Clouds pass east while the sun goes west,
and if you watch closely enough,
they shred and whisper away in your sight,
unless the air itself is shaking,
rumbling away the most peaceful silence
into a sky shattering thunderclap,
an earthquake of the heavens.
Then night falls (or rises)
and the clouds shred away
and the fixed stars slowly turn --
those that don't flare
into sudden collapse themselves.
So the earth's as solid as it gets,
except when it isn't,
and that's certainly how it is.