My Time is not my own.
But when it is, it tries to run away,
over vast fields of corn,
coarse and soaring stalks, slicing skin.
(I never notice. Till the shower.)
a small house at the end of a long drive.
the color of dying grass,
protective bark of a dog.
But Time always gets in.
Pats the dog.
Throws her a milk bone.
Inside, it dries flowers and hangs cobwebs
in silvery circles on door frames,
backs of rickety chairs and window sills.
Time likes to knit, as we all know.
Stashing yarn in small spaces,
spilling out of hidden doors, open closets.
Half made baby clothes.
Sleeves of sweaters.
Poor color choices, all.
Maybe I should unfocus my eyes in another direction.
I'm not looking at you.
But Time is.
Learn to knit: you'll get along fine.
Don't be afraid; the mistakes make it.
So make it.
And stop wasting Time.
|Going slightly mad.|