Wanting the days to move forward,
I am impatient with seven,
a cat stretching after sleep
too lazy to jump to six,
a caterpillar crossing a continent of a day
in no hurry to cross to the edge of five,
and I feel closer to joy when it arrives
yet bells drone throughout the day
too slow in tolling the coming of four,
a tortoise with no urge
to race into three,
a wounded thing limping along as if too tired, too exhausted to hobble
into two,
a sloth with a grip too secure to drop from the tree
into one,
a glacier too slow to carry me
into zero
and to your door
