The steam chugging
Out this plastic pig’s
Natural isn’t right
A man-made atrocity
At the foot of my
Bed. What else can
Be said of this
— part of the 2013 Mindful Writing Challenge on “Writing Our Way Home”
even just the
sight of water
is enough to
slow the galloping
to watch the branch
touch sunny ripples and
hardly hears her
thunder heart over
the sweet robin
No point in being mad at the
Lilypad. It has no idea what it is doing.
It’s not her fault she grows up
Out of the water, surrounding herself.
No point getting bent out of shape when you
Notice you are stuck there.
On that beautiful island, staring into the
Not too distant forest, trees obscured.
Now I’m ready to catch my dinner and after that,
I’ll just hang out, shredding this blame.
It’s not the lilypad’s problem. It’s not the
Fault of unreachable sky, or aloof forest
Or even the placid pond’s coldness. No one else
Owns this greenness,
And the air right here.
Those afternoon hours seem as if they should be endless.
Miles and miles to fill before dinner and dad.
We drop our bags on the bench, and
We set our feet free, and I don’t have to say
Anymore to them, like I once did (they were
Uncertain of ‘what’s next?’ for years). Then
We all stare into the cupboard for awhile–
That takes time. The deciding and the eating,
And the crumb campaign too. Then they
Disappear into next-room neverland.
Meanwhile, I am
Afternooning, which is to say my mind has taken
Off on walkabout between defrosting dinner and
Facebook and unpiling the stack of papers over
There. And if I stop moving, I’ll be
Dragged by a frantic little lady and her
Plastic dog to the
Repair station for emergency
Battery-dectomy and tulle stitches.
Tomorrow someone will ask me how
Our summer went, and tonight I’ll
Try to fall to sleep and startle to
A parade of should-have-dones and
I’ll have to patch together
The reminder of one