Jingling bells on the ever-swinging door of awareness

Speed of light, speed of sound,
of wheels spinning on the ground,
ice and snow and rain and sleet
sound of friends greeting you
at the door
of your life.

Sound of light, sound of speed,
of needs firing like neurons
in too many directions.

Fast, fast. Inside fast,
waking in the morning to a rushing
mind, information words connections
circuits overloaded.

Dance it out,
sweat, sway, glide, stomp, stretch, sit.
Crunched, compressed, concentrated –
knots in shoulders –

I want all the time in the world
which is all the time in the world,
not something you can hoard,
not something you can even hold.

You harvest your crop,
leaving something around the edges
for someone in need,
leaving what falls from your grasp,
letting go.

I learned this today:
“Gleaning the fields.”
How much do you need?

Ostorozhna, dveri zakryvayutsa.
Be careful, please. The doors are closing.
Remember those Russian train announcers,
mumbling?
My doors open and close all day long,
the little bells ringing.
Wake up, wake up!

Time isn’t fast or slow.
My own child admonishes me:
Mama! The days are not shorter.
They are all the same.

She does not believe in Solstice.
Twenty-four hours are twenty-four hours,
wise girl. My teacher.

Walk the dog before the sitter comes.
Guess what?
Today I napped with my daughters
for two hours.
Shabbat.
Rest.
Everything smells like latkes.

Time is time. Not in time or out of it.
Here now, here now, here now,
like a winter bird trilling
in my ears,
replacing the buzzing
of dying batteries.

Arriving with speed,
then walking away, slowly, step by step,
through the thin, crunching snow.

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