The sun is now out and intention is set, though I feel a little wiggly-wobble inside that feels more like rushing than rush, but I set my little ditty of a poem here to better found and ground my need to be rush, not rushing. I'm off to the city and will attend some panel discussions with Jane and return this evening, better informed and mobilized on this subject of publishing books.
Rushing is not Presence
When I am caught in rushing,
not rushes
standing calmly in mud,
lifting green stalks of reverence to sky,
but rush with an I, N, G,
an ending allowing no end.
Rushing
is movement that never completes.
It is not brushing the teeth
with nothing needed, contemplated, or scheduled.
It is not that.
I take the I, N, G, off the word rush,
and settle into earth and sky,
round and serene.
“Sedges have edges,
and rushes are round,
Grasses are hollow
and nodes abound,”
or is it,
“Grasses have nodes
from their tips to the ground.”
However it is, today I found myself a court
where I decree
minutes round like nodes