I cannot speak of time as if it were A ribbon slipping smoothly through my hand In quiet passage. It is more: a stir Of sharp and sudden lights that give the land A broken revelation in the dark. For time can leap as suddenly as knives That cut astonished wounds. It leaves the mark Possessive of the blackened boles of lives. But even as the charred and splintered tree, Raising its mute perplexed look to the sky In wonder, draws to it eyes suddenly Forgetful of the leaf-clad trees that sigh, So must I stand while listening to these Below me whisper of me to the breeze. |