Within us echoes the quiet wail,
“There is no time,
There is no time.”
Time is lost in the striving to
fill empty spaces
that can never be whole,
while clocks spin on and on.
If we were to discover time again,
perhaps it would be found in
melting drops of sun into
crimson and orange horizon, or
in the palpable weight of night,
holding the stars and moon
in suspended bliss.
Time rests in the leaf fraying at the edges,
and the lush cold of a single snowflake,
melting against the warmth of the tongue.
Time ripples and shimmers through
the water that all of a sudden fills the creek,
and hides in the dry cracked riverbed too.
Time is the soft hand of my children
slipping away as they walk ahead,
and time is painting dream worlds on canvas
and spinning poems that awaken
the drumming of the heart,
and spark that nameless feeling
deep inside where suddenly
we are not alone.
Who knows where time goes
while we look the other way,
marching to the sound of seconds dropping,
to the echoes of voices wondering
how life disappeared in an instant?
All the while, time waits for us
to notice, to attend, to discover,
the eternities that lie within
this infinite moment.
A moment no doubt full
of darkness and light,
of past and future,
of possibilities and contradictions,
just as it is and was always
meant to be.
Waiting to be lived.