• Vol. 09
  • Chapter 10
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Becoming Sundials

I am trimming my life back,
taking a train away
from cluttered expectations.
Maybe all I need can be carried in a single bag,
a backpack, hands-free,
walking towards some as of yet
unknown destination.

I remember taking the tube into London,
walking up and down Charing Cross Road,
lingering inside the Silver Moon Women’s Bookshop,
my fingers touching titles,
choosing a slim volume of poetry
to read with a cheap cup of coffee
(that I would make last).
Back then, the dream was to expand,
expand from a one-bedroom flat to a house,
expand from a couple to a family,
fill space and time with plans,
more furniture,
a second fry pan.

With birds leaving the nest,
soon we will look to condense,
let go of large boxes,
duplicate kitchenware,
and too many sweaters.

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Becoming Sundials

Perhaps London will welcome us back,
at least for a visit,
tube train doors opening and closing,
the world now changed,
our swift feet a bit slower,
hands held, arms swinging,
with no need for destinations or plans,
just a cup of tea,
a willingness to let time pass like molasses,
the rushing of pulse
slowed to the sound of passing minutes,
our bodies unmoving sundials
on Hampstead Heath.

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