It’s About Time
We’re not making up for lost time,
this time,
because there is no time.
One day it was January,
and then it was
“how are we going to live through this?” time.
It was April,
and then it was
“how can the buds still break into flowers?” time.
Then it was June,
for some a reminder that the sun can shine longer
than the darkness of the night time.
But time doesn’t wait,
because time has always been
what we make.
Time means what we say
when we decide to say it.
And I say:
The woods don’t care for July.
September never could converse with the stars.
And November waits for no one.
We can’t run out of something
that was never bought or traded.
We can’t wallow at what feels lost
if it was never ours to own or hold.
December is cold
and that’s all there is to it.
What if nothing is lost
and it’s all still here.
Not all the time,
but always.
In all ways
that cannot be measured,
bought,
or held.
