The moonlight sang that song
we can’t remember, invisible wings
cascading through the valiant wind
as the stairs insist
on climbing up.
Up.
Up where time remains an afterthought,
or hangs on the moonlight
nearly in the future. Time always comes,
playing metronome while weightless,
feigning lightness
to ease the ascent.
The twilight of another year sparkles
with flashes — burning brilliance —
so I cannot leave them behind
as we place one foot into the future.
I pause now, lingering
on the twinkling moments,
savoring the sweet stamped imprints
while my month waters
in anticipation of more to come.
Even the sad, the hurt,
the bulbs I’d replace if I could —
I’ll take them with me. Sometimes
any light is a reminder
that life glimmers between bursts
of radiant light
whether we’re looking or not.
My murky memory extrapolates the smoke,
pixelated recollections somewhere in the cache
that clears itself (a grasp slackens)
as I hasten to replace lost echoes
with reminiscences to come,
not forgotten among the ash,
rising if we dare stretch hereafter.
The future — always fuzzy like sleep
that won’t rub out of our eyes — changes
every time we look at it, as we push forward
carrying the momentum of those better angels
urging us to grow our own wings
and launch ourselves to join those
refusing to leave progress to others.
Time will tell what tales we create,
Proceeding only where we dare.
We wink at infinity every time the clock
sounds its alarm, unbending as it howls
as if timelines drive forward between
well-marked lines.
Hours turn
but always circle back.
Sometimes we notice the period while
standing in it but in a lifetime shared,
these eras softly merge,
blurry in places though
the color flashes in focus like leaves in Autumntime.
And the clock shouts, begging for timeliness
while eternity ticks
its pulsing heartbeat simply
a moment in time.
The clock prefers
a polite tree,
stretching
over time,
one more
ring with each
revolution,
content, marked
for the trouble.
The corridor reads
all mundane nameplates,
lusting
over time,
the future
unspooled before it
like ribbon,
slowly marking
time’s dance.
The flame pretends
it cares, ice
tickling
wax, alive
only now
indifferent to
ephemera,
acerbic mark
in time.
Often Mumbled Musings