Posts Tagged ‘busy-ness’


No matter the day is already planned
to the minute. No matter how pressing
the deadline, the must do, the should.
It takes only a second to look out the window
and see the brown bunny in the brown grass.
It takes only a second to fall in love
with the twitchy nose, the nervous eyes,
the lumpy shape of bunny.
How quickly the known world cants toward awe
when wonder slips in—wonder forged
not from epiphany or greatness
but from the barest instant of meeting what is real.

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What I need tonight is a chair—
the big upholstered kind
that sighs when I sit into it,
the kind that holds me the way
I used to imagine a cloud would hold me—
downy, cozy, comfy, secure
and filled with light.
I need a chair that will make me
not want to get up to do
whatever important thing
I think I must do.
Why do I always think I need
to do something? Why
is it so hard to just sit?
So, I guess, what I really need is a chair
and a seatbelt, the kind
they have on helicopters
with five straps that meet
in the center—though
I think those are self-release,
and we all know I will soon
feel driven to rise and rush,
no matter how cumulonimbus-ish
that chair might feel, no matter
how insistent the straps.
So tonight, what I really need
is a soft chair and a five-strap seat belt
and a giant weighted blanket—
not heavy enough to crush me,
but one with enough gravity
that being still feels like the only
real choice. And if I am still, very still,
and not accomplishing anything for a while,
then perhaps I will meet this grief
I am escaping—not that I am trying
to escape it on purpose, it’s just
there is so much important
stuff to do and, perhaps,
let’s say I’ve noticed that when I just sit,
just sit,
with nothing to read and nothing
to do, the grief sits with me
and asks nothing of me except
that I meet it. In that moment,
I remember turning toward grief
is what I most want to do.
In that moment, there is nothing
on any to do list that could deter me
from meeting this grief.
Oh world, I remember.
I remember right now,
so please, what I need most tonight,
it doesn’t matter how soft,
is a chair.

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Burning the Candle

Never enough arms

to juggle the minutes.

Always something to fill,

and something to fix,

something to carry,

something amiss—

one eye on the clock,

one eye on the winds.

I’m a tangle, a jumble,

a snarl of to-do,

but I always keep

two arms free

to reach

toward you.

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