Across the open, high desert meadow

we wander without direction or


Me, with my dog

moving at his pace

not mine.

Stopping at every

hole to a house

to investigate

with his powerful nose.

My sense is sight.

The paintbrush.

a reddish orange

tinged with a

distinctive pink glow,

the asters

and the buckwheat,

the wild geranium

and the potentilla,

poised on the curvature of

the earth’s broad, rocky skin.

punctuating the wide view across the

meadow and into the sky

defined by peaks

with snow still lingering

in their couloirs,

and stacked in

long lines of winter cornices

though the cold wind is gone.

There’s no hurry.

Nowhere to be.

Life slows,

sliding blood pressure,

slower, deeper breathing,

the strain on my face

bleeds into a wide slow smile.

“Slowly” takes on

a joyful meaning

rather than defining

the way old people move.




One thought on “Slowly

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