Turning, Turning, We Come Out
During the anthem
my mind incessantly
knots itself over
the pose I failed
to hold during yoga
and through the next class
my mind keeps revisiting
how I ran out of breath
while singing
the anthem
but on the way home
I chant and croon
to frost-singed mums:
it’s not yet late
it’s not too late
by Peg Duthie
Editor’s Note: I am amused by how clearly this poem captures the frustration of the task at hand. It seems that whatever one is supposed to do is not the thing the brain will focus on at the proper time.
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