VIII - Adjustment

What would it take
for the scales to tip?
A feather, a grain,
a raindrop?
O ballerina perfect,
masked and gowned,
all purple poise,
renowned for your sagacity -
the world trembles
at your feet
but your balance never falters
and your scales never move,
you keep our extra-sensory
reality - that elusive boon -
well-hidden
and the swing of time
does not dissuade you from your task -
the plumes of Maat
light on the head
bear a loaded weight
easily, and you - unmarred
by chore and wear,
always balancing
on tiptoe there, performing
the microscopic adjustment
our eyes can't see
you connect with automatically
and bend fractionally, respond
to drift and revolve
to keep your charges -
all our hearts -
steady
in the dizzy turning
of all turning worlds,
mysteriously.

previous poem

next poem