Nothing is

Is breathing
Is sitting and reading
Is working for money
Is loving a person you’ve got time for
Is holding a child, 
                        Pushing them on the swings
Is bleaching the toilet
Is being in the supermarket, 
                             Finding they’ve discontinued
                                              Another brand
Is having a talk that’s
                             Becoming a row
Is lying in the bath and having
                           A drink among the warm bubbles
Is laughing
                       With a lump in the throat
Is doing all sorts of things
is nothing
But you know 
                    They all count.

Kate © 

an old, old poem (i think i might have been 17 when i wrote this) about feeling as if you have to justify every little thing you do because it isn’t productive or going to get you to an end goal.

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