He says that there is always time.
She thinks,
when is there enough?
There is too much bigness
for the years left
and she can hear the clock.
She wants
time to gather up a thought,
time to fill up with air and time to let it out,
then say all that is precious,
lots of time,
if not now, then down the road a piece
where the road turns,
there, where the sky weeps blue
and the dancing is across a meadow.
But, she has seen the moon gather footprints
in the sand
then the ocean gobble them without weeping.
She has watched bereft as the sea
took her love
until it became a tiny dot in the horizon
and then was gone.
He says the years unfold for reason,
each to teach,
to reach again where you couldn’t,
and it takes time to learn big things,
they are weight that drowns again and again
until a light burns on
and understanding floats.
It floats in a circle
that cannot be ended only begun.
She would take time and throw it
into one final bonfire
and lay down all of her heavy breathing
to sip from the chalice that he offers,
and he would gently blow out the match
and whisper to the wind
and let it ease into the space around her
each night at ten.
