a mourning dove flits down with a branch in her beak

building a nest, i can imagine, her task for the week

the hummingbird buzzes by, close and then away 

following a clock that moves at an incomprehensible speed 

what are the things that call us, so deep 

that the wisdom is lost to habits on repeat

what would it take to honor our past

to set away shame and take steps of change

not with a run but with a slow steady pace

to see what surrounds and notice its weight 

all that you feel that you need to be whole

conspiring against your spirit’s intrinsic call 

to be, just be, find your nest to weave 

and the timing that allows you to breathe