I like it when I stop,


For whatever reason I stop.



Now I'm dabbling in the moment, drawing in my notebook, combing the cats or cutting


Out pictures on the couch . . . 



A voice will nag me to stop and get up and do something, like Father's,


But I ignore it--



In a carefree way, I read my book;


Maybe I'm behind on my work, 


Perhaps Father's nervousness was justified.



All the heaps of things to do,


All the consecutive chores,


All the lofty goals,


The force of progress becomes a blur.



What I love the most is this,


A place of utter emptiness,


Where Hours go unrecorded,


And minutes disappear, unmarked by significance,


Yet full of meaning too, pregnant even, like a secret.


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