The River of Time

THE RIVER

Yesterday the river was lapping at my feet like an old man tapping out a message about time flowing downward from hills remote as hawks.

Today he rises slowly, a momentous pulse pushing seaward, fed by faraway pistons.

At the waterside where air is fresh as a pear, a sweet mist glides forward like a perfumed wrist.

Islands of floating plants drift, joining into continents, rearranging in serpentine tattoos.

Beneath the surface glittery like so many exploding firecrackers, fish swirl, shadowy limbs of an athlete smoothly cutting back and forth.

Denizens gather at the riverbanks in spoonfuls, sprinkling laughter farther than droplets shot from spinning umbrellas.

Distantly a lizard pokes its head into the sun, jerking left and right, vainly divining a future obscured by brightness.

My body is a slowing clock…

My body is a slowing clock,

My molecules tick to sleep.

God is my watchmaker;

In his pocket I wish to keep.

The day winds to a close,

The night springs awake.

Time, a river, empties

Into an eternal lake.

TIME IS NO MORE

The sun dwells in darkness.

The moon lives in light.

The owl hunts at daytime.

The falcon prowls at night.

The dead dine with the living.

The living dream, awake.

The eternal is not the future.

The river of time is a lake.

Denizens gather at the riverbanks in spoonfuls...