A scent takes you back to carelessness and joy An old story,
dusty on the bookshelf, contains crisp white pages
He passes by but does not pass away like a train the length of the earth,
traveling ever so slowly,
his nose dependably catching up with his tail
One seldom captures him in his entirety,
yet one always sees him passing
He does not reveal himself
although he comes around multiple times
so that the vigilant and the opportune may catch him twice
He is non-existent outside of the human perception:
burned clocks and watches leave no trace of him but ashes
We are born and we grow and we die,
yet the surrounding universe remains unaffected
We believe he is concrete,
Eternally existential
But pick up a yardstick and try to measure
the second that seems to be hopelessly dangling in the air . . .
Nothing . . . .
Immeasurable,
by the wave of a tree branch,
the earliest breath of a baby,
the final note of a concerto,
or an original thought he is a mystery taken for granted,
assuming multiple forms:
a wrinkle, a wounded heart, a vacant house,
A dirty piece of clothing, a stench in the air,
a dried up river, an exploding star . . . Lacking constant structure,
Time takes the unique form of a mystery taken for granted