Right on Time

I used to tap my foot at the Universe,
as if God were a barista
who’d misplaced my order.
“Excuse me,” I’d whisper to the sky,
“Did you forget the part
where everything works out for me?”

Turns out,
She was just steeping the tea.
The leaves weren’t ready to tell my fortune yet,
and besides—
cosmic water boils at its own pace.

Now I understand:
the clock I wear is plastic,
the one She keeps is eternal.
Her second hand sweeps through galaxies,
pausing to paint sunsets,
braiding winds into hair,
sending rain to thirsty soil—
and still, somehow,
getting my blessings to me
at the exact moment my hands are open enough to hold them.

So I’ve stopped tapping my foot.
I dance instead.
Because if the Universe is running the schedule,
I can trust
that even when I feel “behind,”
I’m still
right on time—

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