Time. Its name is whispered, scrawled, and mumbled in so many
ways. Its face reflected in countless mirrors and dissolved into the many waters
of the world.
Seasons of growth and learning, dead leaves and
then new. Wrinkles, stooped height, growth rings, wisdom, minutes then inches, infirmity,
rotting wood and patinas of every hue.
The flow from tide to yet another tide, months, calendars,
addresses and anniversaries, cakes and cards, greying hair, the muting of
senses, the cutting of young curls, births and mistakes, victories, and death.
We measure people with small pencil marks on door frames or
by clothes that no longer fit. From seed to stem then leaf, to cone and
broken limb. Then a harvested trunk with some of it as sawdust scattered on the
floor. Hair changes color and fades in color and vitality.
Christmas, survival, recovery,
mountains fading slowly to hills, the dimming of stars, first impressions
and then urns and good byes, the resolutions, the dreams and trophies and the
long kept dresses and jackets and the glory of what was then.
Time brings it all to bear with only the quiet
whisper from the sands that continue their steady fall
from the top,
down to the bottom
of the glass.
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