In the modern world we live at the speed of many lifetimes.
We live like a hummingbird beside an oak.
Love is a chemical thing, a puzzlement of nature,
one spandron of one cathedral in a
city of cathedrals where pilgrims gallop through.
The walkers appear slow, last in a
cascade of lives into layers, geologic cake,
your last footprint already fossilized.
We hardly need to reincarnate.
So it seems. My lovely friends
split into parts at the crack of the pace.
Who wants to be lost to the lace of the
wild carrot or lantern of bluebell?
The race is to multiply. Well, if you don’t
try, you may find you are very happy.
You may find you frolic in the seasons.
You may draw a deep breath like
cold water from a well of old, slow time.