Joy of missing out

I don’t need to go out doing things,

as the pace of it

puts demands on me

I will not meet.

I do not read the book

everyone talks about.

I do not watch the latest films

or box sets, nor do I go

to exhibitions or theatre plays.

No working out for me, filling diaries

or posting on social media,

for life is for living, as it is

passing us by.

I do the small things, enjoy

the pleasure of visiting garden centres, 

walk the aisles among exotic flowers,

wander into DIY stores and look

at the power tools I never use,

the bird tables and fence panels

I never buy, the shrubs

I never plant.

I am content between

lawn-mowers and stackable storage boxes

rather than candles and incense

and make time at home,

where I sit in silence

and practice the art of doing nothing,

stare into space and let the hours run.

The interest lies

not in the difficulty of the doing

but the difficulty for the doer.

This is my vocation to do

what I cannot do.

Silence and I are close.

I know its eyes, mouth, its arms,

as it knows me, all my surface,

my edges and my levers.

I am not inclined to spend

energy on emotion, I just

am.