It is a kind of fear, is it not?
How the day holds promise
How the dawn insists that we begin,
How the dew dries before eggs and oatmeal
Are done. How the list in my hand knows
Where I’m supposed to be.
I’ve been resisting this impatience
Of ordinary life, how tasks
Shriek ruthlessly from my cell phone
And email overflows my inbox,
And unending demands
Seduce my common sense.
And the surprising joy of solitude.
And what is more generous than our breathing?
(after “The Patience of Ordinary Things” by Pat Schneider)