Time takes her time to pass
on wings despite business class;
Her seconds hand barely moving
from eating, twiddling, fidgetting.
Outside a cloud stands still
on the intercontinental horizon;
Sleep would not come for a pill
nor servings of red-grape poison.
Time takes less time to pass,
the day would get by in a flash
had she spent its gift on the grass
simply writing, being, listening.
© Millicent Danker
29 May 2013