The kettle does not agonize over
how long water takes to reach
the just-right temperature for tea.

It heats at its own steady pace,
doesn’t mind waiting, relishes
the quiet unfolding. All things

ripen as they will; everything
takes the time it needs. Life tucks
into winter-bare branches,

germination afoot that human
eyes can’t see. All things become:
The kettle steams; the tea steeps.

There is much to be gained by
sitting quietly—closing the eyes,
breathing, not hand-wringing,

not hovering, not clock-watching,
slowing toward patience.
We trust that leaves will emerge,

that tall trees grow taller,
reaching for sun over lifetimes
far longer than ours.

The imagined world—the one
we think we see—marinates under
sun and moon, as eons of waves

wear away rock, crumble it into
sand—reminding us to stand
in the light, faces into the wind,

to live with gentle calmness
and constancy and
not a little bit of faith.