Lips together, pressed,
as if you were the one dead,
"Wake up"-your only prayer,
but death doesn't care.
Now you can only choke,
on words you never spoke.

Climbing and descending winding hills and mountain ranges,
Crossing valleys, threading through narrow paths,
Blowing through twisted branches and soft leaves,
Raising flags, straining stubborn masts,
Pushing heavy clouds, tearing the darkened sky,
Driving restless currents and seas —
Overcoming the void.

But at times, it quiets into a gentle breeze,
Giving way to comforting stillness,
To the humid silence of a blazing day,
To the star-strewn, domed moonlit night,
To the morning bathed in ascending sun.

Among agitations, flows, pauses, rhythms and courses,
In a delirious tempo of surges and setbacks,
Time dwells —
In the moment, the age, the occasion,
In cycles that return like seasons,
Like the expectation of light in the auroras.

Entwined with feelings,
It arises in the fleeting peak of joy,
Like an eternal farewell embrace;
In the echoing longing of an instant,
Like the anguish of a vibrant memory;
In the stifling anxiety of what’s to come,
Like an agonizing rush of adrenaline;
In the fear that paralyzes and silences,
Like the despairing terror of war;
In the fleeting rest of happiness,
Like a lasting repose of gentle promises;
In the scars left by conflict,
Like intrigue nurtured by indifference;
In the forgiveness that wounds and frees,
Yet leaves murmuring scars.

Time flows through it all,
Sometimes dragging, sometimes rushing through
The passing hours —
Impersonal, unending,
Like the changing landscape;
At times intimate and brief,
Like the clearing of thoughts
That only time knows how to overcome.

Young plants laugh—
carefree in the wind,
smiling at the sun,
whispering, “Time waits for us.”

They sway,
but do not root.
They stretch upward
without drawing deep.
Still they hum, “Time is a friend.”

Unaware—
of the soil's silent pleading,
the richness beneath,
the mercy in the earth.
They hope for a tomorrow
not promised.

Wisdom calls—
“Serve Me in the days of your youth.”
But they chant back,
loud in their pride,
“We are the pulse of this age!”

The Master stands,
hands open,
eyes full of knowing:
Take position.
Take your place.

And I,
a quiet observer,
a hopeful heart,
wonder—
Will they hear Him in time?

From here, four thousand feet down
The Rocky Mountain Range
As winter subsides and spring begins
Purples and whites among the forest, up there, from here
My shaded porch by a hundred years old ash
I see where I once was, high above.

From here, as the tick, toc, tick, toc
Snuck through the air of time
As the children lost their wonder
The fancy climbing, the hold on tight
Of a tree swing dangled, beckoned
Them. They lost their spark
From here at this distance I see it all stuffed in the dirt of time.

In my mind,
I am in the deep south,
Dancing with Cowboys,
Singing folk songs.
Herding cattle,
Chasing outlaws.

In my mind,
I am in Paris, France,
Waking up with you beside me,
Strolling in the lazy streets.
Chatting with the News-Man,
Drinking coffee at the Cafe.

In my mind,
I'm where I want to be,
I'm with all my buddies.
Time never seems to pass,
How can I get all of that?

Life is here,
Then it's not,
One small portion of time,
It's all we've got.
You find things you like,
People too,
I found you.
No second chances,
No time to make up lost dances,
Or even a simple second,
To appreciate what you have.
I blinked,
Then October turned to spring,
Easter flowers came just in time this year,
I can only give them 86 more chances,
To reappear.

It’s looks so perfect.
Somehow in those 60 seconds,
Everything aligns so perfectly,
I just stare at the clock,
How good times looks.

But now it reminds me
Of how imperfect life is for me now
I lost someone so perfect,
Who always made me feel so aligned.

I would stare into those rich eyes,
Like I stare at the clock,
And things would feel perfect.
But others just see us as ugly.

So now when I look at the clock
I don’t see 11:11
I see you.
Baby,
You’re my 11:11 forever.