The day is holding its breath
No it’s not — that’s just me;
The slate green water, slate gray sky
are moving; a north wind presides
The white swans paddle,
bright against the matte water
The flat clouds sometimes
send a hint of rain . . .
Nothing is happening
and there is no urgency
No sun commanding worship
No sparkles dancing
No dramatic cloudscapes, no raging winds
No thundershower, no storm
Just the drone of motorboats
and chirps of closer birds
and the way that waiting
unmoors the craft of time.
©Wendy Mulhern
August 18, 2012
"waiting unmoors the craft of time." I will have to contemplate that. How is time crafted? Hmm. (I love the poem)
ReplyDeleteGood question! And who rides it, and who steers it, and is it possible to attain mastery of it?
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