a day, sick in bed, makes for a new poem.

hibiscus

Rushing to work, stabbing sidewalks with my heels
I pass a hibiscus blossoming.

I get to my car, ready for the rat race, but stop.

My hands fumble through a bag.
Somewhere among the bills, the books, the planner, the keys, the loose change
there is a camera.

(A hibiscus blossoming out of cement
whispered to me.
I could have pretended not to hear.
I could have kept on with my day,
with my busy thoughts about education,
fair-trade coffee,
the horrible sadness of father’s nursing home,
the oil spill,
the ex who already took enough time and thought.
I could have played deaf and drowned in the noise within my head.

I chose to listen.

I chose to listen to you,
blossoming hibiscus,
because I have learned that you are my Mark, my Matthew, Luke, John, etc.
You are the moment that calls me to pause.

You are the moment my head turns before my car turns into a child rushing into the street.

You are the moment a stranger grabs me to say,“a twenty is slipping from your back pocket.”

You are the moment a friend confides her love and support for me, with sweaty palms and sweaty eyes.

You are the moment my mother offers to share her cemetery plot with me, just in case.

You are the moment a lover’s skin presses mine and every wall I have crumbles.
You are the moment my father grabs my hand and weeps.
You are the moment a healer’s hands drift over my body.
You are the moment I ignored sitting in church, debating the authenticity of memorized prayer.

You are the moment someone shares her flesh to make more moments possible.

You, hibiscus, are my god.
You are a moment among many moments that remind me to stop.)

I went back and took a picture.
You are page 289,990 in my bible.