September 6, 2016

on not waiting

Maybe she pressed “send” too quickly. Maybe the urge to get this one thing off her chest
uncoiled the patience inside her, freed the spring from its usual taut remove, and now -
seeing the sloshy mud of words mirrored back - she wonders if maybe a little more time
would have given them a more graceful tint. And yet, there was certain thrill collapsing the space
between thought and deed, pinching the window of her usual contemplation to a slimmer crack.
The oceans are rising catastrophically. An earthquake leveled an entire Italian village in seconds.
The boy who was 6 years old yesterday is now driving the turnpike. How long must the shadow
stretch before we leap? Even the hatchling hawk descends from its dark, canopied perch before
it knows its wings, exactly. Even the faintest scratchings leave their mark, however
hieroglyphic, unfolding one poem at a time, petal by visible petal.