Michelle Wiegers

This morning I’m so tired
from pushing myself hard,
that as I drive down this country road
I can’t bring myself to go

anywhere close to the speed limit.
I feel like a silver haired lady
peeking over my steering wheel
as I creep along, letting

the cars whiz by me.
I always assume the elderly
go slowly because they’re cautious,
not wanting to hit anyone

or miss the ambulance
racing down the road with siren blaring.
But maybe they’ve figured out
a secret that I’m still trying to learn. 

What if driving slowly
is the only way
to live my best life,
to keep from running so fast

that I go right past myself?
Running by the small child inside
who seeks to fill herself with wonder,
passing up the chance for rest,

for play, to slow myself
long enough to notice
how pleasant the rain sounds
dripping onto the roof

of the house next door,
tiny wet whispers tapping
those few remaining leaves
clinging to the maple

in my backyard,
an almost silent thrumming
slowing down my weary soul.
The steady slow chime

of church bells ringing
in the distance, in this moment,
reminding me, I’ve already
been given all that I need.