I watch my feet and miss the world.
Sheer plod to get somewhere. Or nowhere.
Gulls fling themselves into the gale.
A stained mattress slumps in the lane.
Chasing the sunrise,
the brightest peaks the highest.
Get yourself to the music store.
Step into a sea of sound. That’s transport for you.
This slow motion, like watching a tree grow.
Patience Impatiens
I am that cottonwood, heavy,
motionless in the fog.
– Barbara Wild
