“Is it time?”
the withering light of the sun, the
setting rose petals; the watered stem,
still bows to time, is it time?
A babe born into a coffin,
an old man cradled to sleep,
one cries gently; the other in pain,
it’s time for both of them to get going,
fighting, scratching, biting, pulling,
“our time wasn’t till death but it’s quite alright.”
That time I looked up,
at the Roman columns,
the ancient hands made the ancient structure
even at this time, I marvel,
that time I looked down,
at the tower in its infancy,
that time I looked past it in adulthood,
that time I was transfixed by the rusted skeleton,
“Did we deteriorate that quickly?”
Is it time?
“How did you know?”
“I just knew,” she said.
Her old leather bag with her new clothes inside waited anxiously by the half-open door whose ruby color faded,
“When did you decide?”
“It’s been a long time coming,” she said.
our Golden hour was yet to come,
“I don’t want to waste either of our time,” her considerate words plagued the aging heart,
“When can I see you again?”
“It’s time,” she said,
yesterday the embrace was warm,
today it was foreign,
how did twenty-four hours erase the past fifteen years and make us strangers?
waving goodbye, goodnight, farewell to the loving memories,
a minute ago I would have longed for the happy times,
a smile on my face, thinking about the past,
a minute later, tears fill the eyes, she says its time,
happy thoughts, happy memories,
saddened by the turn of the hourglass,
turn it again and bring them back?
that’s not how time works.