Did I hear you speak about time?
It is the passing and sometimes the fleeting. As sharp as a paper’s edge, that crumbles and endangers and incises into a breath.
It is the staying: the days of a dead log, the greying of an old stone wall. Time is the essential witness of steadfastness.
It is an empty path that, in early March, surprises you with full cherry plum on branches from flanking house gardens. It assists in transformations, new appearance for every season, objects slowly shift in space.
The shifted path of the sun produces afternoon glare from a west-facing window; a shifted narrative reveals new twists in the course of life; that should not be altered is the count of a clock: 60 seconds a minute, 60 minutes an hour.
A pair of outgrown wellies, a plant up for pruning, a hole growing on a sock, a book read over and over.
A bird builds a nest, to abandon it. A girl carries her favourite hairpin to the park, to drop it. A kettle brings water to a boil, to be forgotten and turn cold.
The context of all happenings, to good or bad, so Time does not Cure. (Grace does.)
Time is when you think of it, when you close your eyes, when you know it has to go.
You may wonder time is not “forever”, but rather a commitment to the presence.
It is…is.⌛️
08.03.24
