Pinching

I am stuck 
at the beginning, 
pinching
at rice like 
the expectant mother
pausing 
out of breath
mid-stair.
The other side is often pregnant. 

Intention grows 
even in 
chilled winds,
germinating while 
we fixate elsewhere,
though 
I don’t always recognize 
its birth.
Tomorrow takes its own word for granted.

Ambition shoves us 
forward, 
though I wish
I could
stop long enough 
to admire
the track, rushing, 
stuck at the
start. 
Light thaws in its own time.


Phillip Knight Scott | © 2019

Written for several prompts:

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