Holding Hands with Time
Does time really change things?
Or do we change as time ticks on by?
Do seasons really change?
Or does change turn the season’s
landscape from a blanket
of fluffy white snowflakes
to tiny green buds
exploding into colors like the ones
found on an artist’s pallet
only to fade
waiting for the clock to strike
Does time begin again?
Sitting quietly, holding time by its hands
or is time grasping my hands?
For a first, sitting mesmerized, I see the
curl of every joint moving over the
paper like a wave following
its natural progression.
These words written as time plays forward.
They, too, have become natural.
Here, holding hands with time,
my fingers strum the strings
of a guitar…a G chord, then a C…
they etch a drawing unraveling on
a blank page—time seems to have
But, has it?
I am holding hands with time.
Was it always this simple?
What seemed so painfilled…
why, those moments sealed time
long enough to ache. The love
I thought I knew,
now, holding hands with time.
Love is more than mere thought—
it is beyond a feeling—
it is love
found in a pair of hands
trusting in between
when time stops
—a hand will grasp