Somewhere between cities

A poem

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Somewhere between cities

Photo by Kamal J on Unsplash

Time is not this place
high above the earth
in the layer between
stratus or cirrus
or in our views
compelled to spill
from this double paned window.

Time is not the second hand
making another lap around
this sun dial face
or the calendar page
that will turn next month
or the pressure that clamps
the chest midday.

Time is not from a god
who looks back in fondness
and forward with fear
and time does not ask questions
about eternity
or what was before time began
or what will be after it ends.

Time does not understand
our preoccupation
with how this came to be
or how we shape the story
of our past
or even what memory
is for.

Time does not see age
or count in linear fashion
it stands in a silk moment
of interlacing web
draped over
your shoulders and mine
in embrace of every regret
and anticipation.

Time holds everything
except the concept
we shackle to it
defies every limit
we blame it for
and speeds and slows
to make a home for us.

Time offers delicacy
a waiter with a silver platter
olives and fruit
cheese and dessert
brought right to our appetite. 

Time is the creator
a building wave that grows
and never lets go
every death alive
in every breath breathed
and not a mythical life

alive.

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Thank you for reading! If you are so inclined, leave a comment about what strikes you, speaks to you, or stirs in you while you read. I look forward to whatever dialogue happens here, and within a week I will be following up with a Reflection post on how this poem emerged into being.

Brian

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