She Cannot Be Rushed
I stare at dusk-tinged mountains to the east,
anticipating joyously the rise
of an old friend not pressured in the least
to meet my frantic schedule, I surmise.
I cannot rush the moon, although I reckon
that if I could, I would request she hurried.
Though "miles to go before I sleep" do beckon,
the Empress of the night sky moves unworried.
Some obligations elsewhere do await
my undivided interest to be theirs.
But if I linger for her, I'll be late
provoking shaking heads and unkind stares.
My heart of hearts desires to be unbound
from shackles of these deadlines and constraints;
to bathe in yellow radiance full and round
and gaze in peace at this still life she paints.
Debating thus, she crowns over yon mountains;
entranced under her beauty, I stand hushed.
Her rays are elegant, florescent fountains -
I'm thankful that the moon cannot be rushed.
Written May 2016
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