Busy
There are never enough
hours in a day,
minutes in an hour,
seconds in a minute.
The list of things to do grows
like Jack’s beanstalk
longer and longer,
its tendrils probing into the cracks of life,
pushing them open
to reveal the barrenness inside
where anxiety feeds the soil.
Time is something that
cannot be left fallow.
It must be used up,
drained dry,
every drop squeezed
to nurture the list, which flourishes
at the expense of the wildflowers
of home, family and self.
And if a few flowers remain
at the end of each day,
we douse them in the weedkiller
of guilt
as we make a new list
for tomorrow.
Glenis is a relatively new poet working in the flat lands of the Fens
near Cambridge, UK. When she is not writing she makes beaded jewellery,
knits, reads and runs 10K races slowly.