and I’m trying,
to un-hurry up about it.
I don’t want to waste precious moments
trying to strong-arm time;
I can’t control it’s pace
but I can choose mine
so I’m moving mindful and flowy
when I remember
and clucking gentle to myself about it
when I forget
because they’re slipping by fast,
and I don’t want to lose another one of them
to the blight of
hurry and rush.
I hope your May is spacious,
that it’s a long, slow bloom,
that you allow your eyes to wade through starry nights
and fields of wild things rustling,
finding lift where you feel heavy,
light where you feel hard,
lushness where you feel barren,
and love in all your parts.