Time
I think about time
and picture a stream bed,
in which I put my hands to catch something—the water?
Sand? Minnows—
All I get is glow—
my hands wet in the flow—you can’t stop time, hold it—
even when you wade right in—it only makes
your whole body shine (maybe) for as long
as you can stand
the rush.
But often, I avoid thinking about time, as if that might make
time stop.
I spend hours, whole days, weeks,
in a little moving box that tries to blank out time, blanketing
its windows (my little moving box has cut-out squares)
but time doesn’t stop
just because I’ve not thought about it—
And then I picture time as sand, endlessly falling sand—(that comes, I guess,
from hourglasses) and why
I wonder, do I imagine the fall of that sand
to be endless?
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Another draft poem for April. As always, pic and poem mine. All rights reserved. Stay well!
ManicDDaily 
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