There is a new kind of time that arises when you are no longer in a hurry,
When, in the moment, you move and walk in the way that calls to you,
Along a dark and winding path through rocky-wet mossy canyons,
Pennywort and nettle, hobblebush and tall red spruce.
There is a winding, whirling time that takes you to the shady places of the earth
When you no longer worry over hunger and thirst, night and day,
But trust in the timing that guides the lilies and the coltsfoot to bloom,
and the orchids of the meadow to blossom forth unannounced.
There is a holy, sanctified time that arises when you find your way,
Lost amidst the dark unknown, calling out, “Father!” And hearing—Child!
Calling out, “Mother!”—hearing, O Divine Human Being,
Walking upon good earth,
Upon grey stone!
There is a time that is born of patience, a time that suffers and hopes,
And it is in that time that every fruit ripens according to their kind.
There is a time that is born of wisdom, a time that waits and doesn’t know,
And yet which flows over and around every thing like clear white water,
Not getting stuck, never a tiny corner neglecting to fill up or appreciate,
Seeing signs in the wing of a cicada, prophecy on the moth’s fluttering
That one should go, go on, or should go back, turn away
Ere one loses one’s way.
There is a time that is not confused by shoulds and should-nots,
A time that flows like pure water, like clear water flowing,
Down from mountain springs, from mountain seeps tumbling,
‘Twixt houses of wood, houses of stone up in those mountain lands,
Midst forests of birch, forests of oak, of spruce that tower and sing,
And finding its way to the sky.