Apr 162012
 

What is time, and how is it our own?
I will not recognize the clock hours maybe,
So bee-like diligent to my task I am,
Or, grown slowly thoughtful looking out to sea,
Time slips by lightly that would govern me.
My time feels most my own when you and I
Together spend the gold moments given:
Pointing at Venus in her drape of sky,
Or doubling-up downright–with laughter shaken.
Or when moony looks imbue you, dear,
(If I’m not mistaken) the way a clear
Pond becomes clouded with the thought of rain
Or a mother disappears into her child’s pain.
We keep time most when we give all our own.

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