Always, throughout my years,
I was prepared to spend
long hours looking.
Just looking.
Stars, raindrop
on a twig,
a spider’s web,
stripes on a blade of grass,
the seedhead and the bee.
Mountain, leopard, cloud.
Wind and water. Wheat.
Who will do things?
How will they get done
if you’re a dreamer?
If everyone ...
So the story ran.
The hours were truant, stolen,
rumoured to be lost.
But still I sought them out,
stubbornly, hungrily.
Now I know
these were the only hours
that were right.
all bustle, bother, wringing
of hands
has blown out of time.
And here I am, still
kneeling by a flower,
steeped
in eternity: home.
