that after years of driving past a place
on your way to somewhere else, this time
you stop. You find yourself sitting
beneath a scrappy tree as the shadows
make their daily rounds. The breeze stirs,
then forgets itself. The clouds balloon,
then disappear. The cars on the highway
continue their journey toward somewhere.
And you sit. What a relief to go nowhere.
What a gift to have nothing to say.
The winds of your thoughts bluster
and go away. An ant makes its way
to the top of a grass blade then makes
its way back down. The snow
that arrived on the peaks yesterday
melts by noon into the ground.
Where do you think you need to go?
You say, “There,” and the world says, “Here.”
There is cricket song all around you.
Gold tang of rabbit brush rouses the air.
Sometimes it happens this way: you stop.
And the world arrives at your chair.