Sunday, May 8, 2022

In Mayotte the Earth Rang like a Bell

Moments crystallize
     the high held note,
Makes it feel as if
     the patchwork fits,

But so much is asked 
     of this gift called time,
As if it can't be onion peeled
     past, present and future

Like music into layers
     to savor the experience 
Of watching it go, for time
     is only memory,

Though we don't, strictly speaking,
     remember anything;
Every moment is a blank slate
     we fill with paradise smoke

To eagerly brush the dust away
     and await the grief
Of losing what was never there,
     the keenest kind of loss.