It can be enough actually, this:

Just the angle of the day and you doing your best

To cup a few handfuls of what it was like

No different than wildflowers pressed in a book.

Like the one in Scotland that late November

When the tower clock stopped and all we could do

Was gaze on its face, its slender still hands

And wonder what all of it meant, had we too stopped

Did we have the strength to keep our arms like that

And hold our pose right here in the rain?

Categories: poetry, writing

Tags: mindfulness, poem