An Unhurried Hour Poem by Fred Rik Kesner

"an unhurried hour"



The shadow stalls upon the sundial stone,
and afternoon spills sideways, unowned.

Blessed be this midsummer air,
where the cicada's pulse replaces hurry,
asking nothing of the hands or mind.

The grass grows tall beneath our stillness;
the heat ripples like a slow breath.

We are not a sum of tasks completed,
but a river meandering without destination.
Praise be to the sun's unhurried arc,
and the holy grail of standing still.





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