Where the Time Goes
Reborn only to die
Where the time goes it is hard to see —
buried beneath layers of sun-kissed possibility.
Trapped within a frozen shroud —
perpetually reborn only to die —
and repeat over again — that is time.
As it comes and as it goes.
We watch it, but none of us really knows its profundity —
its grace — its cruelty — our fate.
Obscured and unseen, providential patterns,
pitter-patter across the pavement of our lives —
measured in teaspoons of potential — pondering — pride.
We are left to wonder what it all means:
the seasons revolving — our hope and despair, too.
Confounding — it can bring us to our knees.
Where the time goes it is hard to see —
rising above clouds of rain-soaked uncertainty.
Thank you for reading. If you enjoyed this poem, you might also enjoy this one:
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©️Heather Martin, 2022
