Thursday afternoons in another desert valley,
how time moves differently
in the country
in old age, how
We count our days but not so much our hourly rates
here
I stared at the mountainside for an hour and forgot a millennium,
The mountain scoffs at your wrist watch,
Rolls its eyes at your deadlined ulcers, it
has lived here longer than your people knew their name, will
erupt and erode long after your bones have crumbled in the
desert sand,
We
sat across from a surgeon who said all will be well
In the end it’s just
We’re not at the end yet so
I need you to put your watch away a little longer
and let the mountain crumble
Because it will
But all things survive
by falling.
No comments:
Post a Comment