Oh, the coming-out-of-nowhere moment
when, nothing
happens
no what-have-I-to-do-today-list
maybe half a moment
the rush of traffic stops.
The whir of I should be, I should be, I should be
slows to silence,
the white cotton curtains hanging still.
– Marie Howe
Postscript:
The poem seems simple, without degenerating into the trite – a deliberate construction to remind us of the moments when we lose the scurrying and bustle and find ourselves, or find ourselves in the moment perhaps?
You can read a bio of Marie Howe here.
Tagged: Marie Howe, time