Time

And in the cacophony of
a conversation consuming
minutes, I remember how —

can time really pass so
slowly, like glances at the lake
which barely recognizes spring,

or is it autumn’s first snow?
On the surface of slow water,
footprints march back and forth,

like coffee on the porch, between
the carafe and the cup, while
the mailman comes and goes,

sometime before the internet,
before the instant conversation,
while waiting for the milkman.

I text and text returns, like
instant gratification, never far
away from knowing what is

happening just down the road
or continent.  Time is the distance
between, the moment when

revelations are revealed — acts
gathered into an event,
evolving one memory at a time.

And in the cacophony of
a conversation consuming
minutes, I remember how —

can time really pass so
slowly, like glances at the lake
which barely recognizes spring,

or is it autumn’s first snow?
On the surface of slow water,
footprints march back and forth,

like coffee on the porch, between
the carafe and the cup, while
the mailman comes and goes,

sometime before the internet,
before the instant conversation,
while waiting for the milkman.

I text and text returns, like
instant gratification, never far
away from knowing what is

happening just down the road
or continent.  Time is the distance
between, the moment when

revelations are revealed — acts
gathered into an event,
evolving one memory at a time.