I watch as
Each grain glints its separate miniscule nub of time,
Running through our fingers,
Here and here, and now here,
Tumbling into the past at some time in the future.
Is there more grain in the past or in the future,
and how much is in the present?
And if there is less to hold onto in the present,
Our grasp weakening as joints stiffen and
What says that for holding onto love?
Our time will last but a moment.
But you sweep your hand across the sand,
Its quartz glinting in the blue sky light,
And smooth the mounds we had trickled there.
Perhaps we can stay forever now, you said,
And now, and now, and now.
Linking this to The Sunday Muse (http://thesundaymuse.blogspot.com/) and one of Carrie’s images for this week.