The iPhone crouches at the corner of my chair, well within reach. The iMac sits on the altar in the living room, but I can worship from afar by picking up the iPhone. The god of distractions is generous this way: it does not care what use you have for it, only what use it has for you.
Poetry rests in the little spaces between distractions. It waits in the silence for brief attention, patient, burdock along the trail.
There are moments that cry out to be fulfilled.
Like, telling someone you love them.
Or giving your money, all of it.
Your heart is beating, isn’t it?
You’re not in chains, are you?
There is nothing more pathetic than caution
when headlong might save a life,
even, possibly, your own.
— Mary Oliver, “Moments,” Felicity (2016)