How often I've stormed headlong into life,
assaulting what would better be embraced.
My urgency incising like a knife
all things that might slow down my frantic pace.
My pride has been to follow a straight line,
that fabled shortest distance 'tween two points,
to never deviate from my design,
to stay on task lest I should disappoint.
How many golden daffodils have danced,
then wilted since I've read a Wordsworth rhyme?
How long since I upon a stream have chanced
and stopped to skip a stone and waste some time?
So stroll I shall by cool, meandrous stream
to step by measured step my soul redeem.
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Author Notes
I know winter is not half over, but I've had enough and am already daydreaming about fields of daffodils. The Wordsworth poem alluded to here is "I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud" or "Daffodils" from 1804.
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