By the sea and when the
morning comes,
people appear
learning again
the art of slow walk
and its quiet point,
so sadly missed
all those years
of feverish and fervent
busy-ness to make
what serves
as a stand-in
for all things,
both real and unreal,
which doesn’t allow
one to serve the good
for its own sake,
for only true
and pure souls
or true Platonists
could have their
communist utopia,
but you shouldn’t
try it with the devils
as Russia proved
with the help
of all the other
devils who fought
and could not stand it.
But here where the land
ends and the sea begins,
slow walk for its own sake,
like love simply for loving
for which no one needs be paid,
hired, fired, or enslaved,
is like a long-lost dream
to which some have been
somehow again awakened.
Haven’t the greatest things
in life been—didn’t they have
to be—gifts to us, free gifts
of a free will and not loans,
titles, loans, licenses, or pays?
Oh, let the art of slow walk
be blessed—slow enough to
notice that you breathe
and how freely each breath
comes in and goes out again
to keep you live and sentient.
And in that unhurriedness
something returns and expands
and what expands opens
what has been closed or
even dead—for, you learn,
one shouldn’t—cannot rush
headlong through a wonder.
