We arrive, the working week a smear
of rush, a comet’s dust,
streaking out behind us.
Like too-stretched bubble-gum it sags,
separates and falls away;
dead skin in the space of yesterday.
We can consider the plump teapot;
Today the milk can trickle, gentle,
not gush or plop solid.
We can sip,
We can pad through the house barefoot;
acquaint ourselves with our own carpet,
feel its softness on our soles
and hear each footstep’s triplet beat –
heel ball toe
prints just faint
and gone –
barely ripples in air.
We can climb back into a daylight bed;
live backwards to lie still.
Moments inflate to vast marshmallows of time,
slowing the mouth, sweet on the tongue,
staying the heart’s gallop.
from Slow Things