Here And Now

What are you today?

One so full of expectations,

like a cat who has

clawed up his week

and sits near it,

so that he may

wait for it to stir or die.

Today may yet bloom,

it may even spill over the sides

of the over-full pale of water

you hastily carry

to extinguish the

raging fire of your

everyday madness,

your clenched need for events.

But what if today

were to slide past you,

while you were

grappling with some

unimpressive thing,

while you were

trying to gather up

all the motives

that would propel you

out the door?

You know too well

the things that defeat us.

And then when the day

reached its most languid point

and turned back

to grope downwards

again into the place of sleep,

you’d be the one

orphaned by your grand schemes.

But there is freedom in that,

like one who,

waiting for a bus,

suddenly realizes

it’s not coming after all,

and has nowhere to be,

like one who,

with a sense of release,

has that slowly vibrating afternoon,

dripping with the sap

of the cicada’s song,

all to himself.

For the day wants to

scatter your expectations,

like pages torn from a diary.

The day wants you

to sit awhile

on this park bench

in this perfect, finally realized,

aching moment

he took so much trouble to create.

 

 Copyright Ricky Barrow 2014

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