the slowing

It is said that being an artist
is not about what I create,
but how I live in the world.
The poem, an inevitable
flowing – if I am floating
on the waves of awareness.

Of curiosity.

Of noticing something everyday
that only my dreamland eyes
could possibly see.

A color my watery, wired
solitary brain finds familiar.
A building crescendo
my ears suddenly hear –
a grocery store radio tune
reminiscent of a moment only
I can sing the backup harmony to,
pulling at lip corners.

This has become the practice of my life.

The noticing.

How my daughter smells like
pink roses after the shower
and we giggle before sleep,
pillows damp and scented
from faded lavender hair.

How his gestures when speaking
have become so familiar I can feel
them before they materialize.

How poems I’ve read before sound
newly penned from the lips of
women who inflect more perfectly.

How home is now a fortress when
I walk in the door after being away;
because I have created
space.

How oysters tastes sweeter
with a familiar face sitting
on the other side of the table;
speaking in a tone that calms
the whole of me entirely.

How on a plane, miles up, a glass of
champagne has more effervesce.

How sleeping in a bed alone is just
as good as sharing it, but makes
sharing it even more intentional.

How my cat nibbles on the palm
of my hand to remind me I am his
favorite living two-legged creature.

How the earth smells after
the lawn is freshly mowed.
A river’s snake bend catching
you off guard, even when
it hasn’t changed in years.

How the moon was in Virgo
on my birthday, but how could
it be anywhere else?

How I can remember my girl’s
romping laugh; the way it has
changed every year since her birth,
and also remained unchanged.

How immersing myself in a room
of voices, guitars, and a crowd of
strangers singing the same words
is a rebirth that nothing can match.

How a weekday nap on the couch,
locked-eyed chats in bubble baths,
late night wafts of pork belly,
wine-buzzed spring bike rides,
all make me want to paralyze
every clock that exits in
this dreamy, spinning universe.

You might say,
I surely can’t paralyze time.
No one can stop this
reluctant march to our deaths.
But, last year on this day,
I promised I would slow it down –
the tall golden grasses and
the dirt between my toes.
I am still trying – with all these
tangled, miswired heart strings.

Look, see how the rotation
of the earth is sleepier?
Can you feel it, too?
My camera lens eyes
blinked and I burned
the memories into my bones.

I noticed it all.