Hurry, Stop
There is this voice in me that says, hurry.
There is this voice in me that says, stop.
How can a single voice say hurry and stop, both
at the same time?
It makes me think of the dogs who, as I walk them,
rush to a crevice between rock and earth,
some darkness where they
suspect life lurks.
There, they stand, sniff,
bend, pant, wag,
leg-locked bustles of stillness,
that won’t budge at the tug
of leash.
That voice in that crevice of me
asks me to show the same sense, I think,
the same dumb brilliance,
of a dog—hurry, stop–
to forget about leashes.
But then there’s another part of me.
This a part that sits quietly, maybe on a rock
in some corner of the skull.
It simply watches, wonders,
what will I do, it asks. What
will happen next?
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Here’s another little poem. The picture is the detail of an illustration from one of my children’s books called, ABC Goat. (It doesn’t really fit the poem, but I like the dog!)
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