The Plumb Line

A heavy brass plumb bob dangled from the timber pergola, caught in a stray breeze that set its pointed tip wavering across the flagstones. Such erratic oscillation disturbed the morning's composure. Gathering the layered tiers of my gown, I mounted a stacked stone planter to reach the braided linen cord. Rather than arresting its momentum with clumsy haste, I gently cupped both palms around the cool metal cone, absorbing each diminishing sway until the weight settled into motionless suspension. The polished brass point now hovers a mere fraction above a mossy mortar seam, perfectly true to the brick pillar beside it. Gravity, when properly observed, requires no compromise.