Here we move, unselfconscious and deliberate,
At the exact midpoint
Between graceful and stumbling.
Crowds pass through the gallery,
Footsteps slicing echoes in the vacuum.
Isolated from streaming sidewalks
So quiet it feels like church
It seems as if time
slows
down.
Here, we exist in a safe,
A tightly sealed box
Impervious to the flow of minutes,
Hours we spend looking.
Simply looking.
The mind grazes here, on this field of canvas.
From one to the next, bodies shift
All weight on one foot as we ponder;
How open, how vulnerable we are here.
The gallery walk is a pose in meditation
Or perhaps a state of mind.
Where else can we be so comfortably
Alone with our thoughts?
With whom better to stop and smell the roses
Than Renoir, Monet, Georgia O'Keefe.
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