On Sunday morning
I went for my first run
in our new town.
Quiet.
This town is so
damn quiet.
My feet, my breath, the leaves on the ground.
Everything I couldn’t hear
over the scream of the city
is now deafening.
And the constant screaming in head
that was trying to break the barrier
and be heard
is beginning to coo.
fragments of past months.
We search out a forest, green space,
somewhere lush to plant them.
Trees and grass we can walk to,
untouched by the traffic,
by the ever-present whine
of the endless energy cities spit.
Over and over we’ve asked
what’s missing,
but never stopped to wonder
if it might be nothing.
That we might be overflowing
instead of empty.
Longing for the quiet.
The stillness of rainforest.
The song only evergreens,
moss, mushrooms,
and our broken hearts know.
In the cold, wet air
they sing it to us
and we can finally hear
ourselves echoing it back.
Pulsing empathy.
“I know you. You belong here.”
Hush.
On the back burner for so long
you’ve forgotten about it completely.
It’s sitting at the table in a restaurant.
Waiting patiently for you to leave that job
you don’t even like
and make it to dinner.
Late.
It’s underneath a stack of half-finished books
and another mostly empty journal.
Corners of the pages folded,
marking all those inspiring quotes
about places to go and things you’ll do
someday.
It’s somewhere in the back of your fridge.
Tucked between a jar of pickles
and boxes from that take-out place you don’t even like,
but walk by on your way home.
It’s another collection of sentences that start
with words like “when the time is right” and “someday” and “after I…”.
You can always find another reason
you can’t find the time
or do it right now.
You are never wanting for extended timelines.
Two-year plans that are pushed out to five, then ten.
An entire life condensed down to
all the things you said you’d do,
but didn’t.
Ruby Pipes 