Balance

Balance

I walk from the high-rises on a path salt-stained white,

though it's hidden for a moment by the melt of false Spring.

Still, I know the stains are there waiting, for the drying revelations of the sun,

to rorschach meaning beneath our feet.

​

Waiting for the next benediction of rain,

to be washed anew, back to an unmarked canvas.

I think about the risks of build-up. Salt, toxic; inimical to growth. Ancient kings defeated enemies,

sowed soil with salt, and wells, poisoned all.

No succor found, wasteland ghosts.

And yet for humans,​ salt is life.

It defangs the hazards that make us fall,

moves our bodies,

causes our hearts to beat.

Standing on the cusp

of planetary re-set.

We are called, to find balance

in less harmful ways.

​

Fiona Mackintosh (© January 29, 2018; 2022)