Run from Small Fires in Straw

Run From the Small Fires

Do not let fickle minds smudge your still water.

Some carry only mirrors,

so they may admire themselves

while pretending to measure the world.

They duel for the crown of a thimble,

brandishing rules like rusted keys

to a door that opens onto nothing.

They will spoil the wine of your words,

turning the vintage to vinegar.

Do not linger in the marketplace of fools—

where voices are loud,

but the wares are air

and the applause is the dry clap of moth wings.

Smile.

Wave.

Swallow the ember that wants to leap from your tongue.

Better a silent oath under your breath

than the long scrubbing of their smoke from your skin.

Avoid their hands

sticky with the tar of self-importance.

Avoid their feasts

a table heavy with arrogance

but starving of truth.

Wisdom sits in a cathedral larger than pride,

its spires lit by questions,

its stones carved by humility.

Those who dwell there

have no time to throw pebbles at passers-by.

So run.

Run from petty brawls and papier-mâché crowns.

For to argue with a donkey is to bray in chorus,

and to wrestle a bull is to be flattened beneath it.

Leave them to their puddles.

Your river has farther to go.