Not everyone can be Niagara Falls.
Think of the millions of capillaries coalescing-
the rivulets, the ravines
silent with pools and slow whispering,
the aquifers at fruition,
the taciturn down draw of gravity.

Sure we can fake it,
attend Toastmasters and mixers,
imbibe alcohol, “extroversion in a glass,”
push and put ourselves “out there,”
try to be yang, a clang, the tang,

But whenever I do fang and bang,
it takes me a few days to smooth my fur.
Having been licked by puppies,
I am the cat preening in the corner.
After being bowled over,
I have to right my pins.

Yesterday I saw a woman dance down
the street, in full daylight she shimmy-ed.
My work has been not to undulate just like her,
but to investigate the voice that says I must.

Today I could watch her while still breathing,
celebrate her movement
the way the cedar welcomes the squirrel
flitting among its branches.

It you find yourself forcing the exhale,
admiring the extrovert, thinking to be excellent
you must divorce yourself from your inner essence
remember the natural world needs

the curl of the fern,
the rhizome of the mushroom,
as well as lightning and lava.
People are northern lights
and shooting stars, they are also
moss and nautilus.

Our culture
prostrates before the clamor,
organizes around the resound,
the out breath, the largest breast,
but know
even the daring dancers
have their murmured moments,
stockings off, soaking their feet.

Inside even the most insular introvert,
especially within the hush of the muser,
it is often a symphony, volume set at seven.
In their shy stillness,
because of their very mooring,
they root the riotous,
they wick wonder.