Time with its ancient cycles quits for no one.
I rest in homage by the river, sense the current turning.
I feel like a bouquet in wild grasses; living’s left me sweet-sour.
If only it was so easy–a woman in love with water and woods.
But I am pressed between have done and must do,
that wall clock grinning like a gatekeeper,
a metronome imposing rigid order in my life.
Nature’s messengers whisper about
the limits of a ready-made world where
I am running all day from plans to tasks
to desire to regret to one more distant goal.
How did time excavate my life, chew it up,
redesign and cast it to four winds?
I can’t quite catch it as it flies, despite my attention.
I must resume a position within the surround
of time–slipping back in, shouldering my way,
into the line dance of human life.
Wanting still to leap up, beyond constraint.
Every morning my skin blushes with tendrils of light;
night brings a spell of dreams or a wrestling,
and still I am primed for dawn.
There is not enough of time though it
tosses and pins me down these days.
I want to fight back; I am not weak.
But good progress slows, stumbles,
falls in the heat of the fight.
And yet–there is always a yet,
a supernatural response to puzzling things–
despite the lost or misused seconds, this:
walking the labyrinth of lessons,
finding a slipstream or traversing
the wild terrain of aging as it challenges.
Changes. Empowers and releases me.
Time steps aside and opens my eyes.
How much of everything is lived beyond me,
how do others transmute ache into love?
I lay my ego down, lift face and heart
to wind whistling in the trees,
quieted by a willing surrender again.