Poem: Slow | Poetry | Hudson Valley | Hudson Valley; Chronogram
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Poem: Slow 










I
envy
the slow
ones who take
their time to answer
especially the hard questions
questions with pain or need folded into them.
They know the tea will brew in the warm sun & the glass
won't crack, and if it does, well, of course it does. Dry curled
leaves in the little mesh bag will open themselves in the water. How
fat and smooth their leaves will billow (almost turning green again)
before letting out their sweet brown flavor. If you wait
you will taste it. But what about striking
while the iron is hot? What
iron? they say.
What's
hot?

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