Still Time
Life's so abundant with misery,
nature's practicing metamorphosis,
generously tense and uptight, lifts
no lightness, steady with its frost.
Gray is the Sun, trenchant clouds,
rustles of trees reveal the night,
entering but dispossessed. I hear
strange voices cry, shadows cross the path
close press us unaware, a silhouette
salutes the eye, its curtain drawn.
Let there be darkness, darkness illuminating
darkness, we cannot aid or mitigate, ask
no beauty to intercede. This cramped moment
is not mine to give, though far apart from
worshiper's time, Spring's spirit. Still
is the time, its folded garment by no motion
stirred, fabricated remnants fled to sky,
no thunder peels through the absence,
life was once so abundant, sustained
in open fortitude, spirit flowing, hopes flying,
the raindrops loitering like domes of pink and purple,
their buffet gone, fraught with pain, quicker than
breath indrawn. Spirit alone can regenerate a
safe haven, lessen the convolutions vast,
lift up again hope's incapacitated body, reeling
under the torrent.
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