Do you remember the one when the music stopped playing you took a seat and if you
were slow you were out.
You had nowhere to sit.
It may have started with races and racing on the playground.
The fast were picked, the slow left out.
It may not matter where it began because it seeped deep into our every fiber.
And it is.
We race, hurry, scurry, fly by, rush, whirling dervish our way down through our days.
And we miss out on the small.
I hear a collective cry and sigh these days.
From women and moms and wives and mothers.
A cry of the heart.
To rest from the weary of the rush.
A cry of the soul to slow the pace.
And a cry of the eyes of the heart to see it all, record and mark.
Save and savor, this life, these days.
And I seek to find a way to slow.
And it looks a lot like poetry to me.
The fewer the simpler the spaces for breathing.
A place for the eyes and mind to meander down line, weaving along slowly
The words, the life, the road.
I long to be more the tortoise in the story now.
I was the hare, it sounds like harried to me now.
And missing the chair in child’s game seems sweet
Sitting cross-legged on the floor down low,
Slowly I embrace that too.
And of all the slow I now know
Makes us winners
almost every time
Slow to speak and quick to listen, love
guard the tongue
Slowly slowly this I know,
Release the tongue, the words, the thought
Slowly slowly this I know.
Row row row your boat gently, merrily, slowly,
See the child’s play in the day
With eyes wide open
slow, slower, slowest.
See you at the finish line
Last one there wins.
Writing in community with Sandra Heska King
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