in gratitude

the vice of time
in the hands of a preoccupied mind
can scare conscious beings to their corners
screaming into empty white edges
without even a notice
from the perpetrator of their ordeal

and yet
when that hand comes back to water it
like a plant they smile upon its bloom
for seconds a day
it beams its proud flower
and purrs from the soft fingertips
rubbing its parched ego

always listening
always attentive
to every exhale
the crack of her back in an upward dog
imagining arched form
and peaceful smiles
as its soil runs dry

and once remembered
and peppered with the mist of her attention
again its xylem lifts its neck tall
to watch those hips and legs
walk away in unison
with resolve to keep me there on the sill
my edges browning hoping for one more day