Strolling slow beside a slow silty river
in the desert, marveling for hours at how green
the land is after a month of remarkable rain.
Marveling how sage brush branches bend
beneath the weight of great flowering fronds.
How low-angled light makes
strands of spider silk shine—
and the shine is all around us.
It has taken me decades to want
to learn what Mary Oliver means
when she writes, “Oh do you have time
to linger?” After scaling steep peaks
and training for races, after pushing myself
to go farther, go faster, after rushing
to do whatever I think I am here to do,
I now long to be a lingerer, a dawdler,
a straggler, one who celebrates the glory
in the white froth of rabbitbrush gone to seed,
one who follows foam trails emerging
from rapids until they disappear.
I want to be the ridiculous one,
the strange person staring at sky
with tears sliding down my cheeks
because I finally understand that
whatever else I am here to do,
I am also here to stand beneath blue
on a November afternoon.
I am here to learn loving the world
is in service to life itself.
That among other things, I am here
to rest my body against a sun-heated rock
and feel the warmth slip deeper into my being.