Wisely and Slow. They Stumble That Run Fast
We live in a world that comes to us like a storm and we stand
in the middle of the street and let the tempest twist and swirl
around us, motionless and entertained, our ravenous brains
conduits for the fast-paced colors, the sensations that pass.
So much motion while so little makes an impression beyond
the momentary racing of our hearts, the catching of our throats.
But damn, there is a lot of it, and it's colorful and noisy and
there is always room for another strange reflection in the glass
spaces we visit with our scanning eyes and darting minds, and
we know, don't we, that none of this is real, just our fantasies
projected onto every imaginable space, something to chase.
But I want to say I remember
that I have shared slower moments.
I have felt what it is like to do things
that have substance and that move
to the rhythms of my own body.
I have hiked along shaded trails
in the afternoon, holding your hand.
I have kicked my feet through cool water
at the edge of a pool, watching
our children as they glide and rise
to the surface.
I have sat quietly
beside a fire and enjoyed
the stillness of an owl
perched in a nearby tree.
We've danced,
and I've touched your fingertips,
and lingered, imagined.
And I know how it feels to stop time.
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