A poem I wrote almost a year ago about time and appreciating moments:

(Oh, and sometimes, I just don�t believe in titles)

Sharp sand, granules rubbing, chafing, grinding against each other as they push their way through the waist of the hour glass. The year glass. The decade glass.

The voluptuous mother of time, so narrow her middle, so as not to waste a second. Only one grain gets through in one brief moment, expeditiously followed by the next, pushing so hard, so eager to get through, Be done with this task of being, of pulsing, of presently feeling.

To fall, fall, fall

Land in a mountain of minutes lost, years forgotten, All the shiny memories keeping to themselves in a corner. Locked away, hoard their sheen, their glow,

Dancing with the key in the hand they collectively created

As the rest commiserate, wonder in retrospect why they were always so eager to fall to the other side of the waist in the hour glass. The year glass. The decade glass.

Full of regret, they try to jump, climb, get back to the breast of Mother Time.

Stampeded by the onslaught of moments falling, young and new and eager. Eager. Eager.

To see what lies in the hips of mother, below the waist, The womb of experience, fresh and warm and wise.

All of them, all of them, wishing at once (as one more granule plummets down) that they could remember what it was to be in the waist, that tight little spot. Wish to go back to that moment, THEIR moment, and just be there. Just feel there. Without pushing.

-Barbarella

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