I'll Tell You What Kind of Slow

So gradual

as to be incremental

as to be glacial.

But in the old-fashioned sense,

in pre-post-modern parlance:

Like the time before

Greenland actually became, well, green.

Like the time before

untethered icebergs the size of nations

floated sovereignly, exercising

some inalienable right to secession.

Like the time before

Kilimanjaro lost its status

as Old King Africa, white crown gone,

blown away by winds no longer

cold enough to keep him from balding.

By the time you express not just

your fiery passion for me, but recognize

just how far you have fallen,

I will be on my own: this harbor flown.

My sails unfurled,

traveling the world,

visiting ports of exotic call

each person I meet enthralled.

Lovers of all international ilk

showering me with opals & silk,

laying me in fields of fragrant clover,

will have declared seven times over

all sorts of intimate devotion

to this goddess of forward motion

that could have been yours,

had you just opened the doors.

My ship has already sailed.

This affair of ours, curtailed.

It's now you realize

with wide open eyes:

You’ve missed the boat.

That kind of damn slow is

your dawning realization:

You are in love with me.

(cc) Karen G. Johnston