I can measure

how well I’m doing

by how hard

I resist

caring for

myself

when I’m well

getting out the door

into the world—

            where ducks fly over

            and water reflects cattail

            reflects sky—

is easy

I simply follow

the groove

in the rock

of my routine

yes

there’s raucous children

to be dodged

on the way

to tying my shoes

but I can dodge them

on mornings when

I’m not doing so well

there are dozens

of tiny mes

standing in my way

saying—

            don’t you think

            you’d feel better if

            you put away the laundry

            instead

            of going for your walk?

            doesn’t it sound like

            taking a shower

            will be too much work?

            your hair looks great

            are you sure

            you want to ruin it?

the trick is—

            and the trick does not

            want to be heard by

            my brain that’s not doing so well—

that all the

laundry and the

dishes and the

compost and

the calendar

and the

children

will go more

smoothly if

I’ve spent time

listening to

the woods

everything will

feel more manageable

if I take that walk

I used to say

if I make time

for God

She makes time

for me

and I think

there’s a metaphor there

that still holds

if I remember that

I am an extension

of the wild carrot

if I give my ears & lungs

a chance to still for birdsong

then I can feel the roots

growing from my fingers & toes

I remember myself

as ecosystem

and an ecosystem

laughs at the notion

of perfection

wild raspberries can’t help

their unruliness

ferns need those

curling yellow & brown

edges

so too the laundry

on the floor simply means

lives are in process

so too the questions

and proclamations of the children

are like purple aster

joying the ditches

what is peace without flavor?

I am still learning

which pieces of the world

I can carry

on my shoulders

I want to be

at the edge

of my comfort

but I do not want to be

pre-emptively squashed

like a slug

in the roadside dirt

we are here together

the maples

the milkweed

the crows

and I

the trees are losing leaves

my hair is turning grey

and my God

that fellowship

is enough