Image by Daiga Ellaby
I have this love/hate relationship with you. Loving the possibility of you
always near to punctuate the run on sentence of my life, and pause
the ongoing narrative. Hating you for making me feel guilty and unproductive
while binge watching a series on streaming platforms or reading for pleasure,
when I should be clearing out the garage, cooking something savory
instead of ordering takeout. Maybe this writing is also an attempt
to escape you, needing deep insight or a clever poem to save me.
Sometimes I forget your other names - rest, patience, ripening -
a harbinger of brilliance that could not be anticipated watching
the Buddha or Sir Isaac Newton lounging under apple trees.
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