Grounded

Days caught in flying
A reckless race;
Skipping the slower sharp ways,
While letting miles slip past
untouched, untouching,
No pause to ponder
In mad rush to go go go.

But now my wings are clipped,
Hurried miles exchanged
For smaller world in which to stumble,
Rough road bruising underfoot
‘midst dirt and dandelion;
What I thought would chaff,
This slow plod,
Lends space to sigh
And stretch cramped legs,
To hear cricket sing and children play,
To close my eyes
And listen to angels sing.

It isn’t so bad, really.