listening to the drone of the weeder
as it makes its way across the field
its movement, a threshing
tender green stems bow to its knowledge
this one shall live
and this one
shall die
back and forth, a threshing
a separation of what was before
now after
how time is split in two
I have become careless
in this lockdown time
as if this time was out of regular old normal time
This morning, I reached in for blueberries and found them already molded, gone gray
and lettuce wilted to slime
I have become careless with the food someone else gathered from shelves and plunked down in my car trunk
only to be thrown out just after the weekly garbage pick up.
I have become careless with friendships and relations
Calls early on in March and April were tinged with panic and overwrought sentiment
Now most maskless and tired of all the worry,
they have moved on,
leaving me behind closed doors and silent phones.
Squandering these moments,
I have become careless with time itself
as if these hoarded hours will be added on
to the end of my days-
a bonus for being good and careful
Winter and I have become acquainted,
the way old neighbors do,
with tall fences and barking dogs,
but knowing the other is there,
just biding our time.
Time moves in a circle-
a helix strand –
not linear, point to point,
but rising with the thermals
on the wings of large, dark birds.
The sun is rising farther to the south
inching each day to the true east
to the equinox.
Gnomon,
the one who knows,
his shadow casts the lengthening light across
the figured stylus
away from numbers and chimes
but into nature’s time.
Time is not linear
but round,
a spiraling cycle of sun and moon.
Persephone’s choice
of resurrection and renewal,
rising from the withered vine
to abundant grape and glory
only to wither again.
Modern time is only a construct of conceit-
man controlling his minutes and hours
each tied to his wrist
or tucked into his vest pocket
to be worshiped
or rebuffed
or excoriated
until his final breath.
But the old oaks stand,
unhurried by the numbers and chimes,
moved only by the moon’s tides
and the sun’s chariot travels
from light into light into light.
(revision)
Time moves in a circle-
a helix strand –
not linear, point to point,
but rising with the thermals
on the wings
of large, dark birds.
Wheeling across the sky,
a murmuration of starlings and
the souls of the dead
to defend the stars
as they fall,
turning on that great wheel
of the chariot.
(Swing low,
sweet)ness,
fill my mouth with words
of wonder and delight
that they may sing to the sparrows
and the great horned owl
as he passes judgment on all we have done before.
Will this circle be unbroken in the time we have left?
Will our hours and minutes
lay across the calendar pages, clean and pristine
as the January snow and the lambs of springtime
that skip merrily to slaughter?
Shall we gather at the river- the long road home to glory?
What shall we forsake,
for goodness sake,
at the rising of the wind?
The old clock chimes in my brother’s house,
just as it chimed
in my fathers,
just as it chimed
in my grandfathers,
just as it chimed
in my great grandfathers.
Its painted metal face implacable
as it viewed the history of our family
across continents,
states, towns, streets.
Long dead hands wound
the delicate balanced brass pendulum
as future hands will touch
its skillfully carved oaken case-
strong against the changing years,
weathering hard times
and passively enduring the good.
Holding in its ornately constructed hands
the minutes and hours of our days-
to chime in my brothers house
just as it will chime
in my nephews
just as it will chime
in the home of those yet born.
The old clock chimes.
The sun is rising farther to the south
inching each day to the true east
to the equinox
Gnomon
the one who knows
his shadow casts the lengthening light across
the figured stylus
away from numbers and chimes
but into nature’s time
Time is not linear
but round
a spiraling cycle of sun and moon
Persephone’s choice
of resurrection and renewal
rising from the withered vine
to abundant grape and glory
only to wither again
Modern time is only a construct of conceit-
man controlling his minutes and hours
each tied to his wrist
or tucked into his vest pocket
to be worshipped
or rebuffed
or excoriated
until his final breath
But the old oaks stand
unhurried by the numbers and chimes
moved only by the moon’s tides
and the sun’s chariot travels
from light into light into light
barely breaking the waters tension
she floats between earth and sky
reflecting on the waters meaning
and the passage of time
fossilized in stone
and etched in wings of dragonflies
where will the rivers take her
coursing at the speed of her heartbeat
its one and the same
drift and flow
years and rainfall
swelling of days
and overflowing the banks of memory
time is not linear
but river-full
rapid and slow
with enough tension
in the waters body
to make her way to the sea
“Time is the longest distance between two places.”
― Tennessee Williams, The Glass Menagerie
going isn’t easy
and staying isn’t hard
it’s the in between of it
that dawdles and drags its feet
time is fast
in the going and staying
but the in between time
the every- day
day in and day out
slows time
truck stuck in the mud slow
bogged in the weeds slow
held fast in the briars slow
stung with the common
day after day after day
whistling past the graveyard
of lapsed time
never to be redeemed
into golden coins
just dross and chaff
and the leavings of leftover
afternoons
and mornings
and midnights
when we were easy
in our minutes and hours
and there was still all the time in the world
thecourseofourseasons 