by Trish Hopkinson
I decide to move more
slowly, consciously taking my time
emptying the dishwasher one plate
into the cupboard, one fork into the drawer,
walk across to place a single cup on a shelf
then remember I’ve been meaning to clean
the stovetop, pause the putting away
and clean—remove the knobs, the cast
iron burner grates, spray on cleanser
and wipe away debris—now return
to the previous task, realizing
how intentional I must be to not focus
on efficiency, how well I have trained
myself to never waste a second
to plan every future moment
so as to never miss a thing; I slip
my running shoes on, now
just for strolling, select something long
to listen to, gradually make my way
down the sidewalk, onto the path
and down the hill to the convenience store
and yes, I typically drive, because the hill
is steep and on most days
seems more than I can manage
at the pace I like to keep, but today
I shorten my stride, walk to prevent
joint pressure, ease my way down
then on the return, ease my way up
as if I’ve no other thing to do, as if life
is paused and I’m the only one in the world.
— from Juniper Volume 4, Issue 1