She turns off the news
and watches the yellow and black fat waxy caterpillar
make its steady trek through the goldenrod and the ferns
over and under the leaves and up the milkbane
to find the perfect slender stalk.
She watches while it sleeps
then turns itself,
hides itself in a green and golden cocoon
and dreams of transformation.
She thinks about the mountain stream
that starts as a trickle, and gathers speed as it responds to gravity
and over time, days, months, years, decades, centuries,
softens and wears that mountain down to stones.
Human time is more limited, which is why the rush.
Human time
hair turns gray, shoulders stoop, teeth fall out, skin sags, eyes dim,
an aging mind
when memory becomes imagination.
What else can she do?
Appreciate the purple eggplant dying to spread their seeds,
along with all the garden produce,
watch the squirrels make nests and hide things
as they run up and down the trees,
listen to the geese cry out
as they fly away.
Shirin Morris has been writing short stories and poems since she first learned to write. But in recent years observing the world within, and the world at large, through poetry has become a kind of salvation. Although not yet published, she looks forward to sharing her simple observations with others.