Various and Sundry Poetry

time is not the enemy

Early spring late afternoon, diffuse light descending on the street, where a woman takes a walk toward a quiet field. A pocket of ice melts lethargically in the shadow of trees. The breeze is so slight the sound of birds lands unfiltered from the high branches. A boy lets his dog off leash, and even the retriever’s run is languid. Has there ever been a more spacious moment than now? Last week, the sense of urgency was palpable, but it was hard to name, exactly, what was calling for so much attention, like the approaching wail of an ambulance, that swivel from the driver’s seat, craning to see the telltale red flashing. Hurry, the world seems to be saying. Or get out of the way. But these aren’t the only choices. This porthole in March confirms it. I am looking out a new window. Time is not the enemy. The sky is unfolding in millimeters. A million blades of grass are just beginning to wake up.