Time escapes me.
Like a flower unfolding, one moment a greenish bud, the next a full petaled bloom,
and I marvel at how time in my own belly evades me,
as I busy through the day, that life has passed into hunger
or the movement of a bowel.
And time again surprises my features, the wrinkle in my forehead,
the hairs on my scalp-
I didn’t perceive them growing,
but time dictated them into long dark curls.
And time slowly by special marker, sketched in the gray strands,
standing bright and silver against the black.
Time is illusive.
Do I dream to have an inkling of its power?
For it seems to make itself known only in miniature realities,
not in its true passing, inimitable and infinite.
And even if I were to fixedly stare and watch rainfall
I would not perceive the emptying of the cloud,
nor the flooding of the river.
Not until after the deed was done.
This is time, a great magician.
Slight of hand and we appear,
trick of light and we are gone,
and our minds dream of the in between, telling ourselves there are stories there,
in spaces we do not see,
writing an epic to empty the cloud,
singing a ballad to fill the river.
Time works in our unknowing,
blindfolding our senses to its presence,
except in memory where lies the only proof that something has changed,
that fullness has passed into emptiness,
and bright eyes have passed into slumber,
and age has transformed the child,
and seasons have opened the flowers.
We dream of the in between,
piecing together moments like a quilt,
our fancies the threads, our minds the needle,
holding together lives made up of movements which we cannot fathom.
We jump, as if in 2D, grasping at the third,
knowing that there is a pen outside of ourselves,
filling in the shadows beneath our feet,
circling in the freckles on our bodies.
We only perceive the contrast of our being after the marks have been made,
and we wade back and forth on paper, living life after the fact.
Time- time escapes me.
But I find solace in the dream, that perhaps the hand that moves time,
like a pen on the page of my life,
perhaps it draws me because,
like a flower unfolding in the clutches of time,
I too am unfolding.
And though I cannot perceive this movement,
I find solace in the dream,
that someone can.
Poem Copyright (C) Saying Sooth 2020
Photo Copyright (C) Saying Sooth 2020