By afternoon on the fifth day, the sun had already set.
Though it did not set on time, it had set on moments.
Vivid moments contained in smooth, red glass; the cup I drank from in days past.
When the seconds had already begun to crawl away,
Like rain off the edge of a roof, after the last thunderstorm of the summer,
Where I held my breath and mumbled, “this is it”.
Even then, the black river had pushed us along,
In between beats of the heart felt in silent moments and quivering hands.
Yet the river never flowed.
The water in the rain and quill dried up,
Like hands breathed on by the wind in winter,
In which the sun now sets on all that has been sealed away.
Let the sun set.
Moments are not to be kept in glass or in cupboards.
Still, I question whether they should be contained at all.
For the rain bites and the river gnaws,
As I again hold my breath and now assuredly say, “this is it”,
Yet never to be said with the same inflection.
For how long will I linger on a feeling?
How long will I hold onto a thought?
There is no place to store such things safely.
Perhaps that is the point.
By morning, the moments will appear dim in the red glass,
As they should and ought to be,
Though I know I’ll find myself dropping in on them now and again,
Stroking the glass, knocking the edge, hoping that I’ll awaken something that has only fallen asleep.
I laugh at my own folly.