The Preciousness of Time
I give myself space
and my whole heart gathers up into a ball,
a hanky to hold a precious gift of sensing
in and out of time.
What would I like to say this day where fog offers sky a place to cry -
O Holy Night,
lilts through my head,
stars singing in galaxies, some spiraled like a rose,
others open to mold into design, like clay.
How many roses bud, bloom, and part,
in this universe perceived as I,
and what do I do with the rest?
Writing time with Jane,
A playground filled with toys,
jungle gyms, and swings.
Is there anything better than this time?
It gives me equilibrium, and lifts my lips
in a candelabra curve to hold and display
each, a candle we light or not -
sometimes we need the dark
to sink our roots
and wiggle the match of heart.