The Slow Way Down

Raindrop races down the glass.
Chasing something I can't name from here.
Desperate for the finish line.
Where the ground swallows it whole.

I used to move like that.
Burning to beat everyone else to the end.
Now I sit with my coffee going cold.
Watch each drop take the long way.

There is no prize for arriving first.
We all end up in the same dark earth.
I know this.
I have always known this.

But something in me still wants the slow path.
The one that curves without reason.
That catches the light wrong and holds it anyway.

Even falling looks like grace.
When you have time to watch it move.

The bread is rising downstairs.
I can smell it.
I am still here.
That has to mean something.

I will not do the math on what it costs.

--Vera