THE LAST STOP: 

We sweat the small stuff. 

We age; we no longer teach the way we once did.

Our instruments are dark, rusted and tarnished.

Even “getting off the bus” is a challenge, we drop

And lose one of those red shoes we were wearing, 

We scurry below the seat, grappling and scraping 

The dirty newspapers and debris that somehow, we

Cling to, not realizing that just being on the bus is 

The blessing, even during those harried moments.

We live and breathe between two great bookends,

But in moments of clarity, we gaze past the tiny

Mysterious beings that so often make us afraid.

Then we take a moment, and stop, and in the mirror

We see the great queen mother spider, within us,

Self-assured, in control, invisible, and magnificent.

She’s always there; we’re often too busy scurrying

Along the fetid deck of the broken vehicles within,

Who so often,  we confuse with who we are. 

                         bruce silverman & dreamers