The tai chi seniors are out there again,
under flame trees, preventing storms
with hands upturned,
their backs to rush hour traffic,
saying ‘no’ to the thousand hurricanes
that seed the air about them.
They sway at the speed of seaweed
in limpid rockpools
long after the tide recedes
to counter fast which is the disease
you catch from a city just by breathing
or buying a lottery ticket.
Fast makes life buckle at intersections,
turns pillows yellow with sweat,
offers Apples, Apps and Amazons
because Fast never wants less.
Fast counts love in terabytes,
then earns trillions just by being fast.
Orange blossoms have fallen on grass
where the tai chi seniors glide
over canyons, borders and land mines.
They stroke the nothingness
before them as if it were a cat
about to spring off through a window.
Listen how it purrs,
how its eyes refuse to meet your own.
Stop. Go. Orange Blossom.
(Mark Fidis)