The light’s an open hand today,
an invitation to some dance
whose name has frayed, has gone away
into the dark abysm’s backward chance.
29, 200 days to reach this morning’s sun.
Faces, voices, mountain roads,
an ocean where dreams had once begun
in argosies with treasure-loads,
whose tidal shores say Yes, say No,
an open hand that vanishes
as regular as ticking clock that only knows
again, again, the build-up and its ravages.
The heart’s lub-dub, the shadow’s span,
the doe’s bright eyes, tick-ridden flanks,
a bird’s sweet call that says there is no plan
but Time, for which I must give thanks.
by Ed Hack
Editor’s Note: This poem touches on that sensation of time passing that only comes with several decades spent alive, where every moment left is a gift.