This tempo clings to air, a slow breathing in place

larghissimo, largo, larghetto

thick as night under a lost moon,

body rustling inside sleep as spare as frost

fleeing spring heat–and how we crave naked feet,

toes shouting out to grass and concrete.

Where are we now? In a somersault of time, this pause?

Once allegro, allegretto our lives jigged, jagged,

mind’s interior a brilliant palette,

hands given work and seeking more

and not one single day to discard.

We love this life, its sweat and beats,

barely satiated by a feast of possibilities.

We became full-muscled, raw-boned explorers

and dreamers, makers once from so far away

we try to recall ancestors in this cloak of waiting.

How they survived. Loved.

Everyone counts–must–to be better, greater.

But here are our hands full of questions,

prayer and anguish, of need and more waiting

as the pace drifts into low gear.

The life core listens for signals, a good

purposeful speed, movement toward

the primary world again: such music and flavor and touch.

Hope lifts, spirals like dandelion seed in invisible wind

and we reach for it before it tries to disappear