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Mindfulness by Megan Furman
Life is lost in the freneticbut gained in the deliberate
contemplative revelry
Go slowly
My grandfather use to sit and
watch as hummingbirds sipped cider
from the necks of flowers
How could one be content, so silent, so still
I want to cook breakfast
to feed the five thousands
work wonder into whole wheat
slice heaven in an omelet
But the planning, shopping, chopping, dicing
inevitably turns to work
between errands and essays and tax returns
Where went the worship?
And when they slam it all down
nevermindful of the quiche’s crust
the perfectly peaked meringue turns to sawdust
But never mind
The day, I breathe, is fixed
My expectations, sigh, are not
Which is more malleable:
what Is, or what I Say?
To live in the interstices,
the spaces in between:
it is a right—or—what’s more,
perhaps, a duty?
In the gaps between the seams,
it seems,
the unplanned pregnant moments
full of concentrated emptiness
dwell the glimmers of heaven.
-Megan Furman
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