I hurried through my babies’ infancies
and hustled past their toddlerhoods and youths.
I raced from work to childcare, my knees
supporting more than me – the daily truths
were lists of jobs I hurried to have done.
I cried a lot. I argued with my spouse.
I wondered what a prison I’d begun
when I selected family and house.

I’m 47 now and they’re near-grown.
Commuting in the gray, I say goodbye
to hurrying to what cannot be known
and as I bid it leave me with July,
I hope to find the posture that will race
no more and yet advance, by natural pace.