We are adrift on a small raft
and we moue small kisses into the air
as if to say goodbye.
The relentless ticking of the clock,
never stopping its measured beat,
a metronome in an empty kitchen.
Where is the music, the piano of thought?
We break out cord progressions,
seeking patterns.
Meanwhile time's measured march
strings the minutes into years
until this parting where we pass
from one existence to another.
Oh yes, there was a time
when we understood the language of trees,
translating the creek's thought into song.
The slow thoughts of trees,
the birch writing on leaves.
Concentric time measured
in cambian layers
and speaking in tongues.
undated Oct 2005?
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