48

This is the world of the ticking of clocks,

Menses of women and tides

Of the moon. Orbits of planets,

The swing of a pendulum, spin of the earth,

Cycles of seasons.

Here, at my table, I question time’s meaning,

I gaze at the legions of people who pass by my gate

And ask: Where are they going, and why?

Two hawks alight on the rail with a flap

Of dark wings. Are they time and not-time?

They watch as the throngings of travelers

Pass silent below, the successions

Of parents and children, the deaths after births

After deaths through the span of the ages,

The sweating and splashing of time,

Pendulum’s swing and the next and the next,

With the endless repeat of forgotten lives.

What is this passage of seconds and centuries?

Cyclings of atoms through mindless

Vibrations, this flight of the galaxies

Racing to nowhere? What meaning this instant

Of time with my inhale and exhale, this moment

Of breath in infinity?