Unfolding

A Poem by Sam Grackle

The bed grips for it’s lack of motion
torn out, ripping myself from the hold
I jump and days long struggle folds me
into a tangle of the modern nonsense.

I go from one thing to the next
hardly thinking of myself and where
I stand in the midst of this chaos.
Where’s the garden the poets talk of?

It’s right there waiting, I know, but
I cannot see, the fog of rushing,
the hustle of day clouds the sight
and one longs for rest, for respite.

In sleep we know, the mind blank.
I don’t dream, haven’t in years.
Though maybe there’s a whisper
that steals the attention of one’s soul.

I work all day and fight for the hour
of solitude, hard won, that allowance
for the unfolding of a mind bent
toward obligation and dead lines.

The time to listen — to oneself
to a precious one outside, and to
the song of wandering thought,
is like stretching legs, arms outward.

Original content via Sam Grackle. All Rights Reserved.