A muse is like a book that
only appears when you are
Moved by stillness.
The pages of this book
are fragile, old paper that I can turn slowly.
My life has felt like a broken VCR,
Stuck in fast-forward.
The snow falls outside, blanketing my concerns and my worries.
The pace of the slanted raindrops
seem to say: “Calm yourself. There is time.”
The blanket of white that has
Taken ownership of our city says,
“stay here. Sleep. Reset.”
There is a cycle to nature
A cycle where the crinkled thoughts of yesterday
The sharp rattle of worries and the jabs of deadlines
Become like quiet sleeping children
In snowsuits, curled up after a day’s play.
I strive as hard as I can
To be better, faster, always keeping up.
I am relentless.
I don’t give myself space
Until the sky says,
“It’s time to remember yourself.
You are an artist, remember?
You are a poet.
You are not just a tornado of productivity.
Please, be kind to yourself today.”
I sit and look at my kitchen
Listen to the dishwasher swishing
Like a tiny troupe of tap dancers…
I feel my breathing
I drink orange juice
I am calm, but I fear coming
To a complete stop.
What is the optimum motion?
What is the value of rest?
What is balance?
Is too much exuberance bad?
Is exuberance good?
I am a mess of warring adjectives.
I know one thing…
The world stops turning when
It has something to tell you.
What I’ve heard is:
Be grateful for your life
Be grateful for others
And their resilience
Appreciate the water
And the ice
And one more day
Of this incredible life.
