Angela Cummings

The Rush

Here comes the rush of the morning:
the cold harbor breathes out, and
its current does not waver. No.

It knows exactly where it is going.

Here comes the rush of the hour:
the bold, needle-less limbs of the fir tree
welcoming all guests; its deep, dark
hostels uniting migrants and natives alike.
Note: this tree is not really a fir.

No one minds.

And here comes the rush of the minute:
configurations of worlds climbing over
the peaks of my eye’s vista,
dancing in gravity’s ancient ballroom;
cuddling together for a moment –
a moment that is over too soon. And I?
I, for once, am not in a hurry to do anything.