Saying No To The Rushing

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There is time to look up at the golden maple,
to consider her limbs all tangled up
with light and life, how unafraid
she is to be naked—to let it all come,
to let it all go. There is time
to stand still on the front porch on a Monday afternoon
and water the flowers that have graced you
with orange blossoms each day
of this fading summer, time to say thank you—
for another afternoon, another Monday,
for blossoms and front porches and stillness
and time. Time.
Yes, there is time to say no to the rushing,
to the push to perform, no to the chase
to collect all the prettiest things. Yes to opening
the book of poetry, to lingering on a line until every
last window blows open inside you.
Might you look up at the sky full of stars and laugh
at how, just a moment ago, you tried to undo what had
already been done, laugh at how you worried yourself
sick over whys and what ifs, worried over, over—
what was that again?
Who would you be without the storm
in your mind, if you took the time
to taste the exact flavor of this fading moment—
the moment that took 13.8 billion years
to get here. Maybe
you would be like that golden maple,
all tangled up with light and life—
unafraid to be naked, unafraid
to let it all come
to let it all go.