Slow Time

Slow as it takes this morning to come together 

To rise from a tangle of sleep 

Into the dark gift of morning and coffee 

And clarity on the hill,

Mountains turning pink and gold.

Steady and slow as dark runs on dirt roads 

Lit only by the single beam of a headlamp.

Slow as footsteps soft and springy through the grove of spruce

Sprinkled with the tiniest of needles and cones 

A path not yet packed down to hard roots and granite.  

Slow as the crunch of dry brown leaves, 

The hollow tapping of feet on the boardwalk over the bog

The slurping stick of mud

The clicking of poles.

Steady as the slow climb to the open ledge peak

Gold and red leafed

Sparkling blue lake and sky. 

Slow as it takes coming down carefully

Over the steep stone ledge.

As slow as it takes the old cat to die

Lying there looking at the stream 

Wondering if there is anything 

Interesting enough to bother going after 

Remembering when once she did.  

As slow as it takes apple crisp to bubble in the oven,

Slow as it is for the young man to find his way to alright on the other side of inconsolable,

Slow as the sun rise standing here on the beach on this cold morning,

Slow as we are drifting in the glassy bay, waiting for the sun to set over golden water. 

Slow as it takes blisters to heal, 

For feet to mend

For ideas to be formed into words.

Slow as it takes for mercy to be be found 

A stream of orange light across a dark sky 

That turns so quickly

To shadow and shade

Sending us scurrying for headlamps.

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