Contentment

Is there a space in my aging 

where it is an acceptable thing 

to forget; a place where it is whole

to be weak, broken open, and to be undone.

Perhaps a knoll of sorts, where 

it is really just fine
to be disheveled of heart.
To lay off being driven for
perfection, and to just not iron 

the creases of my

life and work. 

A place where vital debris

may lay hidden along

the flow of this great river

with so much washing down

her length that - 

pieces 

drifting off into the eddies

at the end of streams that

feed her - 

quietly

without warning or fanfare.

Softly lost to her mighty flow.

But not truly lost.

A place of unperturbed repose
and unwind - a kin 

to Whitman’s need 

to lean and loafe at ease.  

It is here, in my me.  In the core 

of what I have built.  Behind the busy

sidewalks of forward motion and

progress.  It is here in the stillness 

of quiet pause and hungering toward

contentment.