what we call time,
its mountain ranges and its geologic tales,
the reaches and the misses,
what seems to be haphazard,
the careful plans, extensive engineering,
legacies that mark the futures
of many generations,
Maybe in the scheme of things,
all of time is just a small ripped edge,
a narrow line, the space between
the yearning and the “aha”,
desire and its fulfillment,
the longing and the saturating sweetness
of satisfaction
Maybe it doesn’t matter at all
if something was instant
or took a long, long time,
in the scheme of what we are,
the truth of what we’ve always been.
©Wendy Mulhern
August 18, 2016
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