You’ve shaken off your sodden cloak and I raise my sleepy head to marvel at the dandelions, rising from their beds, now in seed; these perfect pods, how did they survive the battering rains, the deluge of not quite 40 days. Closing their petals, in prayer, fingers laced, oh these delicate filament traces, waiting on ___ the wind.
Their surreal glow, so rounded and full, firm for their alien eyes in this sandy, scraped land of interminably green — Light-up Lollipops! Sugar spun candy floss. I’d like to brush my teeth with them.
So what quest have we, dear Monday? Of what promise to do you speak, as we walk towards the longest day of the year, this week? How can I figure-eight around this conundrum, the absurdity of lengthening and then within a breath, shortening. Losing a minute of daylight per day! This seems unconscionable to set the table, as we are able, only to declare we must dine, by candlelight, when Summer has just begun. But time, like the nasty pest, ticks itself on. Oh, Monday, where is the court of appeal? I have a bone to pick.
And what would you make of it, if I said: A Day is only a minute long.
Precisely what would you say, if you only had 60 seconds, — hurry, no delays! The sum of it all — in this brief breath – these strange drawn-out, lazy days, if life wasn’t 24 hours, not 86400 seconds, but simply 1 minute.
Now, don’t tell me to hold on, — there isn’t time, and this promises to be a fine day, once I’ve wrung out my socks, and flossed, and donned a smock of bug spray, as deterrent for their happy appetites – I’m clearly delicious, but Monday, how I wish I might just consider, something other than loss.
Time’s a thief, – so is pain, sorrow and grief, and I’d much rather not play this hand; I’m not an ostrich with my head in the sand, – it’s too sticky wet anyhow, but I can’t help but feel dissuaded to trek to Summer’s temple, for within the next breath, it’s all going to hell, on the tortoise’s back –
today I am
balled sock fluff,
waiting to be picked off, tossed into the wind
– it’s a Zen thing, dear Monday
leave a message, maybe.
©Backpocket Poems – Wildchild47