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There is No “Next Time” like Now
A letter on current times in verse.
To let you know,
The crows, like feelings, are out today. Swooping, elegant, paper stains to tissue paper, of a sky pried apart. It is brighter than it has ever been. These hands do not fumble clocks but fumble easy sayings, easy goings. There is not so much “going” now, not like it was when we could flip over a day like another page and expect a page to be there. Instead we find glue, and a spine, and seams.
When is the time?
Time for falling, for catching up. Time for reaching, for spending time swallowing crumbs picked up from across the pond, for mulling. We like waiting, as much as we don’t. Waiting. Watching. Having the luxury and curse of temporary suspension, to decide what will come.
When is the time?
White blossoms whose names I haven’t learned are out. A sugar lump of a bird is out. Some sort of chickadee or finch. Red petals on an ash limb. It’s so simple to forget we are not lightbulbs and makeshift walls. Matchsticks fall. Stone clamours. The rhododendron stays green.
When is the time?
Not for naivety or shrewd. Not for playing pinball with bowling balls. For keeping the first promise of humans; to be human. To nurturing the simplest of truths alive. A poem is…
