Peace is more often found in forests on Sundays than paved highways to square offices
It is likely in tree branches dipping low, grazing waves and starting ripples
It lives in baby skies and vivid leaves, wispy clouds casting the perfect amount of shadow over problems
Peace bubbles up when you put your feet up or curl up or lay down next to a lake in Massachusetts
It is better when you have a black and white dog beside you, paws hanging over roots and a lazy tongue rolling with easy sighs
Peace especially manifests in little girls with ponytails and outfits that are decidedly not their bathing suit, but they go in the lake anyway
The little girls who throw thick pieces of sliced bread to the ducks paddling shallow
People without imagination say, “They can’t swallow pieces that big, break the bread up”
Little girls who haven’t learned that life can be too big to swallow still throw the big pieces
And the ducks carry them anyway, pieces tossed by someone
Who doesn’t yet need lakes to find peace.
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