Poetic Time

 

     Some say time is a river. I agree in part. Time is a liquid, and it flows: you can pour, drink, and be immersed by it. Time ebbs and flows, and you are filled, and emptied, by time. Like any body of water, you can drown in time. If you are lucky, you rise above time, as in prayer, your spirit set free to become light. Even for an instant, this journey replenishes and brings the mind in contact with language not of this earth. The poet  remembers how to create art when scenes of distance, light and shadow give testimony to the infinite, and unconscious of breath or blood, begins to learn language for the first time.