Counting

Wanting the days to move forward,

I am impatient with seven,

a cat stretching after sleep

too lazy to jump to six,

a caterpillar crossing a continent of a day

in no hurry to cross to the edge of five,

and I feel closer to joy when it arrives

yet bells drone throughout the day

too slow in tolling the coming of four,

a tortoise with no urge

to race into three,

a wounded thing limping along as if too tired, too exhausted to hobble

into two,

a sloth with a grip too secure to drop from the tree

into one,

a glacier too slow to carry me

into zero

and to your door

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