How we lay the prickle of a deadline at our feet, brush our hair with the hard bristles
of a burden we've drawn out of the ether, believing weight and pressure will do us good.
Yes, we'll nod in agreement at the wisdom of stillness, close our eyes as the wind whistles
past, pantomime a brief peace on the deck with a book and a glass of lemonade.
But inside, the hurry is constant, punishing. Make this. Do that. Go there. As if efficiency were
a matter of time. As if time were a matter of efficiency. Outside, the bumblebees
are circling the daisies, making spirals of the air like circus twirlers. But their wings are
so quiet, the antithesis of buzzing, and at first I think they're dizzy, drunk on all the choices
before them, the patch of flowers discombobulating. But no. Patience drives their need,
the hour irrelevant. They are ready when they're ready. They look for the heart before they feed.