A Matter of Time
Whenever I’m alone,
As usually I am these days,
I make room to acknowledge
The weight of my own presence
By minding the tide of my breath.
It flows in on a four-count
With the ease of deliberate intent
Advancing toward its seawall limit.
It flows out on an eight-count
Revealing a beachcomber’s dream.
In that moment my mind envisions
Outstretched sands littered by time
With everything ever’s been lost
By all romantic searchers
Navigating treacherous seas.
It isn’t hard to feel unloved.
It’s easy as taking a breath and letting it go.
Letting go of everything
Is all one really gets to do.
It’s just a matter of time.
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