Water flowing gently
from a small stream uphill,
living from moment to moment,
so, too, seems the passage of time.
But listen to an old song,
read a forgotten book,
trace over an old wound,
see how the years tug at the corners
of a face you had once loved,
then time seems as a torrent,
like cascading white waters
rushing toward nothing in particular,
relentless in its passing;
we are here for only a moment.
Where are they now?
I wonder.
The stream flows gently.
I walk quietly uphill
towards the setting sun.