I Want To Be Unproductive

I want to be unproductive, light a candle, and watch the wax melt down and bleed forming puddles of wax on my wooden table
to see the geese flying and notice
how they all eventually align in a straight row
God’s secret

I want to be unproductive and drink seven cups of Turkish Black tea at dawn
notice how the steam from my glass coils upwards, and write a hundred poems that I will never share.

I want to walk slowly on the grass noticing the softness of each blade and the pressure of the stone beneath my feet.

I don’t want to have a nine-to-five.
I want to be unproductive and lay flat on my back
nestled underneath a redwood grove and watch how the winds sway the trees
notice how the lungs of the canopy expands and contracts
and match my inhalation to the forest's exhalation
to count the rings of a cut redwood tree
to crouch down, closer to the earth
no, closer
to see, I mean really see, all the different species of moss and lichen
their colors and textures, the hairs on their hairs
and to pet them as I would the four-legged ones
to kneel in the rain and look for mushrooms emerging out of the mulch of fern and redwood. To slow down, look at the banana slugs crossing the trail, and count the speckles on their back.

I don’t want to rise and grind.
I want to be unproductive and cook breakfast for four hours
and then give myself another four hours to eat it
pour myself coffee, read poetry, let my belly hang,
have prolonged conversations while eating figs, toast slathered with butter, and jams that drip from my hands
and never look at the clock

to go to the garden and marvel at the new growth
notice all the little ones crawling making the bed of leafy greens, home.
to notice the dew drops hanging from the leaves
to smell the rain and pine marrying.

I want to be unproductive
and take long baths, light candles, and read the almanac
occasionally glance outside my window to see the moon and hear the owls
melt in the warmth of water and smells of rose
stew in my unprocessed grief
until my fingers wrinkle like raisins

I do not want to clock in my hours.
I want to be unproductive and roam the small town of Point Reyes
look at all the produce and their food items even though I don’t need anything
sit on the benches taking in the winter sun and eavesdrop on peoples’ conversations
to exchange smiles and good mornings with strangers
to try buffalo milk ice cream drizzled with olive oil and sea salt

I want to be unproductive and walk the community garden, and see if the mulberry tree has shed its leaves yet. To greet my gardener friend and catch up until the night catches us. To see what poem wants to slip out my tongue as I take the dusk.

Marina Strocchi

I want to be unproductive
spend the day as a swallow would
wander the forest as the coyote would
curl up in a cozy sunlit spot like a cat
graze the hills as a deer could
chew my grass, digest with my four stomachs, swat flies with my tail as a cow

I want to be unproductive
figure out faces in the stones and boulders while I wander the dells
make stories out of sticks with kids
build faerie houses in the woods with flowers, acorns, and leaves

I want to be unproductive
to make slow medicine to fight off the seasonal colds with my kitchen witch housemate. Stir elderberry, honey, and cognac for hours to make syrup. Cut up horseradish, onions, turmeric, garlic, and ginger, and soak them in apple cider vinegar to make fire cider and make handwritten labels. To sing over the medicines, and exchange stories until our hearts are full and eyes grow tired. To read children’s story books in bed and nourish our little ones.

I want to be unproductive and release myself into the freedom
of stillness
of boredom
I want to lay on the creek on a sunny day
feel the cold currents ripple through my warm limbs
feel the tiny fish nibble on my dead skin
and drink the watermelon juice that took me half an hour to make
to listen to the strumming of the guitar that my friend plays
while the leaves of trees filter the sunlight and the shadows dance on his face.
I want to be unproductive
to know the smell of silence and the sounds of stillness
to feel my way through life gently
to breathe in the in-between.