Winter. The still time.

Sometimes I get nudgy

habituated to movement and action

when what is called for is non-doing and rest.

I tremble and plead for answers to my questions put as demands:

Tell me, show me, send me a sign.

When what is called for is rest.

I want to fling myself

into certainty and “the known”

when what is called for

Is rest.

If only I had the answers, I tell myself.

Then

I’d rest.