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Posts Tagged ‘time’

One Time Warp

 

 

 

leaning into a wind

from twenty years ago—

still tugging tears from my eyes

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Going Forty

 

 

 

these longer days,

still not enough time

to notice how beautiful

the cottonwood

rimed in white

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A response of sorts to Shakespeare’s Sonnet 18

 

 

Not that I wasn’t fond of it—the blues

and golds and thick brush strokes—perhaps it was

because I was so fond of it I threw

the art away, that life-size portrait of

eternal summer, mine, the painting in

which one hand reaches for the sun, the other

grows dark roots into the earth. Now all

that lives of those bright lines are these two hands

that painted them. With something less than care

I rolled the canvas tight and took it to

the trash, the company of grapefruit rinds

and last year’s mail. By tea, I’ve gotten used

to how the wall looks—empty, open, free—

already dreamed what else these hands might do.

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One Blink

 

 

 

distracted by dishes

and shoveling and paperwork

I fail to notice

my son

has grown two inches

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Forgive Me

 

 

I sometimes

forget we are

animated clay.

I forget

how everything

breaks.

I like to think

we have time.

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One Timing

 

 

 

watching the kids play

I consider we will never be young together—

not all flowers bloom in spring

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One Eventually

 

 

those thorns in my pocket

surprised to find I have rubbed them

dull, smooth

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One Misperception

 

 

 

What if it’s not an hourglass?

What if our time here

is more like sand

in a six million

mile an hour

wind

?

 

 

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One Missed Deadline

 

 

 

I dangle my whole body

from the end of the minute hand

as it mounts its way

toward the hour,

no use,

it swings me into tomorrow

right on time.

 

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While Flipping Pages

Out of the old green Rand McNally,

pressed between North Dakota and Ohio,

fell a handful of faded rose petals,

once yellow, now brown.

Brittle and strangely flat,

they hardly resemble the flowers

they were when they came to me

in an exuberant bouquet.

The petals are dried past pretty,

pale and dead, and still

there is something lovely about them,

the symmetry of the darkened veins,

how smooth they are, like skin.

I, too, am more fragile,

twenty winters older since

I slipped these petals into

the weight of the atlas,

and part of me shakes my head

at that naïve girl who so wanted

to try to save something beautiful.

And part of me thanks her.

She could not then have known

how on an late summer night

I would discover them again,

and, surprised, take a sniff and find,

could it be? a faint sweet scent.

Some nights, even the tiniest bit of beauty

is enough to shake us wildly awake,

reminding us there is so much

yet to bloom, so much we still long

to give to the world.

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