(time)

It’s all we have
time –
and breath.
I search for grace
in allowing mine
ease, but arresting
inertia before it all
slips away. Sometimes
I grip it too hard,
my work effortful and
without joy
I push myself through
the day, as though I
were a wheel barrow
or follow along behind
myself critical of every
move.
Twenty-four hours in every
day, we all have the same.
My husband gets to work
before I do, despite his
commute. And stays up later
working. eight for work,
six for sleep. What did you
accomplish with the other ten.
So much of it lost shampoos
and showers, the frequency
with which I change my clothes.
How do I account for that?
Or the ponderous staring
I often find myself in?
Like now leaning back
to watch the vine which
is choking my neighbor’s
tree. We could write if
off to a contemplative
nature, but some of it
is merely sloth. That
settles in front of a tv
biography and only works
during commericals. And
then again it can be what
she once called paralysis
of will, in which I cannot
recall my intentions, and
if I could I would
be unable I fear to move
myself in their direction.

4/28/99