Monday

I don't feel much like writing poetry. So when one comes at me, I stop as soon as I can and write it 

down. The poem below is about driving through a tunnel of fir trees. I feel sometimes as if the trees are trying to tell me something. I don't know the language. If I just knew the language...I could learn it from spending more time among them. 

The trees, I'm guessing are slow speakers too. I'd have to slow down to hear them, to understand. I probably am too much "doing" instead of being, as a way of coping. I get seduced into a to do list, getting things done feels good too. And this weekend, we did get things done. Which does feel good. There is a balance of doing and being which I didn't get this weekend. Being outside is part doing part being.