What is, is.

I sit by the gently flowing river,

in the shade of a large pine tree. 

Its exposed tangled roots, caked with mud, 

my temporary abode.

I absently dangle my toe over the icy rush below, 

eyes taking in the mountains on the horizon 

rendered hazy by sun's whimsy.

The kids jostle and squeal as they stand

waist-deep, urging me to embrace this

wet, cool, sublime suspension of Time.

Bucket lists don't matter. 

Doing something, being somewhere doesn't matter. 

Staying put, right here, right now

is me.

I dash full-speed the first 10 miles,

anticipatory warmth charging my innards;

inexplicable screeching halt, snail-like inching,

the next 10 miles an eternity.

I punch the preset radio channels, one, then another;

restless, I reach my destination: home.

Change of plans— no eggplant Parmesan,

no corn bread, no green beans tonight.

A quick burrito and salad would have to do.

Mealtime: the super-glue that binds us together.

Elaborate dinners don't matter.

Unwashed dishes, overflowing hampers don't matter.

Racing home from work, caring, feeding

is me.

I watch the whirring humming bird,

the noisy chickadees, bushtits, and sparrows.

I park myself on the deck; camera 

and steaming coffee my cohorts.

Summer weekend holds the promise of forts and watermelons,

home-made ice-cream, sprinklers, and bubbles.

Young tempers flare, discord escalates,

I feel no urge to jump in and set things right.

A hundred To-Dos ping-pong in my head

longing for prioritization and closure.

Nagging guilt doesn't matter.

Cobwebs and bathtub stains don't matter.

Idling away, willfully slothful, procrastinating

is me.

I flip the omelette, stir the oatmeal,

butter the toast, dish up some yogurt&granola;

the agility of a multi-armed octopus, my asset.

I set the table, pack the lunches, wake up the kids.

"Breakfast!" I champion, skipping mine—

hypocrisy is a parental prerogative.

I let small hands pack a healthy snack, 

fill the water bottle, and assemble the lunch bag—

inculcating responsibility is a parental duty.

I hug and kiss the kids and rush off to tackle

another day filled with deliberate undertaking.

Bucolic mornings don't matter.

How things Ought-To-Be-but-Aren't doesn't matter.

Chugging on, frenzied yet grateful,

is me.

I step outside— spontaneous, disembodied, hovering;  

watching, resisting, struggling, drooping, bracing.

Arrogance of Youth discarded, I welcome 

the promise of an unfaltering march to the Finish:

Wisdom beckons. Such as it may be.

 I do not wish to defer emotion;

I do not dare to entertain remorse.

I hail the hurried days of speeding through the hours;

I grasp and cradle the humdrum days of slow-dripping clocks. 
Time is only a whimsical concept.

Special occasions don't matter.

Achievements and validation don't matter.

Accepting each day, being, existing

is me.