The space around us is filled with hurrying,
and the expectation to conform to the seasonal “holidaze",
Preparations to celebrate.
I don’t celebrate. I hurry to help those who do.
The hurry makes me want to run away,
far away, to the high places. Maybe to a cabin in woods,
where there is only
the warmth of a fire,
the simple flow of a sun’s
path across the sky,
some natural magic,
beauty that fills me up and
quiets my mind.
Here, in the hurry of life,
I've let myself get sucked in.
I turn away and cast eyes upon a bird,
skittering through the leaves on the ground,
looking for something.
Breathe in peace.
Inside, I burn sage. I smudge the house.
Fan the smoke to wash away hurry.
Wash away remnants of the rush.
Instead, I will look for magic.