About Time

Why not just sit there and think about time
and listen to its silent, shifting rhythm?
Be still and it moves no faster than honey
poured expectantly into tea,
when all you want to do is get going.
But move, and time rushes past you and me,
nagging to keep up, keep pace
with its rushing, careening and helpless pursuit.
But whence? We should know where.
The books all say it takes us there:
to our futures, linked, but so apart
from a past we share in memories;
our graveyards of intentions
and dusty experience.
Yet time flies. It’s cruel to make it stop,
to clip its wings, to induce caesura,
for all of us depend upon its flight:
some with the hope of an avid traveler;
others pulling a face, like a circus clown;
still more wishing it along, without pause
in its rush from somewhere to nowhere.

SiKee 0116