Cacoon

Procrastination

I hear the sweet hum of soft purpose

keeping rhythm in a room nearby,

the light clink of dishes being arranged,

the crinkle of papers being shuffled and organized;

the buzz of movement's electricity

grazing me through the walls

to gently inquire, “When?”

From the safety of my nook time feels still

and I am free to decide or not,

maybe wait another hour to reply.

I feel the surge of spring's storms

forging rounds of clean thunder

safely in the distance;

an occupied patience expecting debut

where always is now and now is too soon.