It’s been years since I did something productive
Enough for people to notice.
People move on faster than I
Can be motivated to move close to them.
The optimists call me dormant
Waiting for the right opportunity.
Those who know me call me stagnant
Not willing to take a risk.
I am the one once wondered.
When my hot streak ended and I cooled off
The fake ones left, all too quick—
Only in it for the thrill.
Those with stakes in my future stayed longer
They only left for better offers.
The last to go were the well-intentioned
Trying to measure, fix, or label—
I am their failed experiment.
Each left me parting gifts, severance packages.
I find kindred spirits within them now—
Thrown away, forgotten, left behind—
Fruitless fields, the penniless plenty,
Cave-ins and pitfalls as I fall apart.
Even nature withdraws itself fearing the worst—
I am the barren landscape.
What would it take?
What would make them see?
How far would make them notice?
How much would make them pay attention?
I am now but a mountain waiting for its mustard seed.