Open Thread: Slow Day

Hosted by a lazy river

Speed

Some things properly can’t be done fast,

like reading a poem, or kissing,

or driving in places with names like

Eureka Springs.

Children at piano speed through their Bach

to drown out their mother's cry: “Slow down!”

Why are the young, whose lives stretch out ahead,

in such a hurry?

And when you fall behind a car that pokes along,

you say, “It must be someone old,” and when you pass,

confirm it--some old woman

who surely knows

her days are drawing short

proceeds like a queen on a flowery float,

dispensing time like petals left and right, 

as if she's got a million

hours to squander. Think of the oak’s growth.

Think of the ax. Less simply, study a wren

fluffed over her eggs for days,

factual as the galaxy 

that somersaults over her head, like a pinwheel

pushed by a child’s breath. So Einstein,

watching his hair get white,

noticed that years fly by

at the same rate that love’s eyes dilate.

He took the crushed ferns called pencil

and wrote his theorem in a slow scrawl,

taking his own sweet time. 

- Hope Coulter

Friday Recommendations!  What have you been reading/writing/listening to/playing/watching lately?  Shamelessly self-promote or boost the signal on something you think we should know about - the weekend’s coming up, give us something new to explore!


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