At The In-Box

If I could
I would stretch this moment out
leaving all the nagging details of my in-box
at the outer ridge of my awareness.
They would hang there, by their tails, perhaps,
swinging to and fro,
preening one another,
like happy chimpanzees searching
for little ticks in their hair.

If I could I would clear a space
where no interference came between me and the words I write,
where the only channel worth surfing
would be the one that reaches out to you through silence.

If I could I would transform into
an alien being from another planet, arriving on this one,
absolved of all responsibility
save taking things in for the first time.
I’d marvel at the weeds and trees in my back yard,
the softness of the petals
or the contours at the edge of a leaf.

If I could I would invent a parallel universe
where I could simply live and love
the way, I believe, I was meant to.

But I have these “things to do”
and the best I can do is meet them with grace,
invite space to the ‘meeting’.

Be gentle with time.
By no fault of its own it has become terribly over-colonized.
It can’t help itself.

Not so, with space,
which is a matter of presence,
and has its own way
of stretching things out.

Even at the inbox.

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