“Summer specializes in time, slows it down almost to dream….” ~ Jennifer Grotz
I too was bent on it, eager to jump
out of the pockmarked skillet and into
the heated cauldron of marriage— Hurry,
hurry, said the wind, all the while boring
escape hatches in the tall reeds. Hurry
said the lilac, and the jeweled hummingbird
that revved the throttle on its small engine.
Oh, I let them sing their songs of scorching
and I rushed to drink the wine. And oh,
my fingers bled from threading silk
into the needle, from slipping on
my rings of twine. The dish of nectar
tilts from the brittle branches, and the weeds
remain the feathery vagabonds they are… Now
I try to learn the gold-slow rhythms of afternoons,
the thrift of hours from the longer bones of time.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.