The Gift of Time
It arrived wrapped in crisp white paper.
Time arrived a while ago wrapped in crisp white paper with a silver satin ribbon and a tidy matching bow. It just sits there now, everyday, ever ready, eager for the next endeavor but equally comfortable sinking deeper into silence, enjoying true solitude. It just sits there, calm and still, as quiet and nonchalant as a cat curled up napping at the foot of a bed.
But then you sense its itchiness to get on with whatever comes next, like an impatient dog pining for an afternoon walk. The air around it is heavy with expectations, simultaneously standing still and steadily running out, the way water slowly slides over the lip of smooth stones at the edge of a favorite swimming hole. It makes no noise as it slips away, leaves no trail of where it’s been nor clues of where it’s headed. There’s no getting it back and little evidence that it was ever here, just lingering intentions and aspirations and procrastinations and, hopefully, at least, a few memories of precious moments of solitude.
I really like this poem, Rich. I've always had questions about Time. How old is time? When did it start?
Was there anything before it came? And what about its arrival? Were there people then? How did they know it had arrived? Did it match up with their seasons? Did they have to make new ones? Did they think it could heal all wounds, or is that something that came later? Did they know it would run out?
Thank You!
Really appreciate this one - as it is fleeting, so take advantage of it - and don’t over evaluate your choices - or time will vaporize all of them- go for it!