Time forms in filaments, spun into fibers
that are wound into split-second threads,
pulled and strung taut on the temporal loom.
A miracle weaves this singular causal cloth
we all finger, tug and frantically tear
in blind panic for fear of shortage.
Though the fabric is without visible ends,
there is never enough for one of us
much less the entire host of souls
who have clutched at it in their turn.
History is the chronicle of all who tried
in vain to stretch what bends for no man.
Mother and Father are not our parents,
but merely ushers who introduce each one,
parting the curtains so we can take the stage.
We are the children of our fleeting days,
born and bred, anchored until we’re dead
then set free to find whatever comes next.
Time unfolds the grasp of our infant fingers
so we can find the feel of when and where,
marking our passage before we know what it is.
Only the hour hand never lets go of us
as we walk unwitting on the calendar pages
and the mantle of the sleeping Earth.
About the Poem
This poem talks about perhaps the only constant companion any of us have in our lives. The passage of our time, however long or whenever placed in history, helps to define us as much as we define our time. Here is a video interpretation of this poem, read by David:
ClockworkThis poem talks about perhaps the only constant companion any of us have in our lives. The passage of our time, however long or whenever placed in history, helps to define us as much as we define our time. View on YouTube
This poem was completed July 18, 2003. It is previously unpublished in print.