THE GOD OF SLOW LIVING

the God of slow living is terrible in His patience He lingers on my shrouding

of dough in warm kitchen counter hours His hunger narrowed to the grain

its growth and grinding I thought I honored Him

by pleasure in pressure canning – I was wrong He commanded me to clear the lawn

and plant an orchard in His name He preferred me never to leave

my home, to spin fiber into thread into yarn into sweaters

to line a cedar hope chest in the hours of my wanting

He is nearest, He condemns me to labor gone bad, the baby still

within me, pushing because pushing is all that’s left to do

He loves most the taste of my suffering, says it sweetens everything I make