Fear is a great motivator, but it has short legs.
Worn out after the test, the trophy and the pizza,
I don’t remember much.
The work rumbles, a little gassy,
awaiting peristalsis and the final squeeze.
Motivation is the great motivator; where is she?
I stand in the grass while tiny bugs tickle the edges of my feet.
I feel the sun’s rays and the road’s grit
push through spirit and out the mind.
Silent, I can finally hear and sing.
Motivation comes from that spiraled inside clock.
I missed precocity, yet still, motivation visits
when I’m slowed down and humbled, not-knowing.
I surrender to her spell, sputtering melody
and laughing away the nectar.
Wait—see if she doesn’t push along the deep back wall
and tap out a new plan, a pirouette,
a frantic look-through.
Want motivation? Plant those feet in the grass
and wait to be tickled.