Stand still and

come what may, they tell me.

Perhaps then I will stand still,

with feet propped against

this little flock of earthen stones

and let the wind jig in my toes.

Here I will wither happily,

like the gathering ducks,  

pooled and waiting.

I’ll whistle for the twisting

roots of soil

where hide promises of cradle and tomb. 

I will vie for the sweeter attentions of

womb-sung songs with words,

cramped, waiting, unborn.

I think I’ll wait for their release

from promises

made for two

and let spring’s last push

seduce summer’s agenda.

The coughing day-brown hillside

counsels me

to be more than I was,

but less quick to

be more than what could be.

Leave that to the rest of us, they tell me.

I think I’ll just wait here.