There is more of it to do than time
and somehow that does not matter
because time has stood still more often
than it gets credit for, waiting
for me to catch up,
to dance over quicksand in the midst of earthquakes,
slowly. Smiling, happy for the first time
in a coon’s age (suddenly remembering
and having no idea what to do with it.
About this poem
A compressed week. Storms pending. Change in the air – I can’t tell if it is near or far, but I smell it. Good doctor’s report, with the numbers finally agreeing with how I feel. Another battle won, this time without a battle, and you may have no idea of what it all means but that’s OK. Whatever you decide or feel, you are probably right.
It’s your poem now, not mine.
PS – This is not one of my pictures. It’s (legal) stock photography.