I have a very hurried rush
that wants to hurry me.
It presses like a farmer's boot
on the sweet fruit of wine.
The urgency to arrive,
to find,
to solve,
to be or undo.
It squeezes, but does not crush.
It binds, but releases.
I run as slowly
as the second hand of a clock:
second by second,
inch by inch.
As far as one can go, as close as one can fly,
as high as one can fly, as low as one can be.
As sad as one can be happy,
as innocent and sincere...
as one's soul can allow.