Within us echoes the quiet wail, “There is no time, There is no time.”
Time is lost in the striving to fill empty spaces that can never be whole, while clocks spin on and on.
If we were to discover time again, perhaps it would be found in melting drops of sun into crimson and orange horizon, or in the palpable weight of night, holding the stars and moon in suspended bliss.
Time rests in the leaf fraying at the edges, and the lush cold of a single snowflake, melting against the warmth of the tongue. Time ripples and shimmers through the water that all of a sudden fills the creek, and hides in the dry cracked riverbed too.
Time is the soft hand of my children slipping away as they walk ahead, and time is painting dream worlds on canvas and spinning poems that awaken the drumming of the heart, and spark that nameless feeling deep inside where suddenly we are not alone.
Who knows where time goes while we look the other way, marching to the sound of seconds dropping, to the echoes of voices wondering how life disappeared in an instant? All the while, time waits for us to notice, to attend, to discover, the eternities that lie within this infinite moment.
A moment no doubt full of darkness and light, of past and future, of possibilities and contradictions, and yet– perfect, just as it is and was always meant to be. Waiting to be lived.
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