You might as well befriend the moon– embrace her clouded peekaboos. And music . . .
Receive the tune– you have no time to choose– alone in a crowd or with no one in view. And a smell . . .
Wafts past your nose– what's that? Or who?
Perfume on skin or a place that you knew? Pause. No need to wonder—you know who that was— and who you are as nostalgia winds the second hand 'round.
"Time is a straight line," said he "It moves consecutively, watches as it goes behind and below like walking on a path that winds into— well— no one knows."
"No one knows, that's right," said she. "Simply put, I do agree. But there's no line to speak of. Time bends–not like a knee– more like a finger touching its thumb or a rainbow finding it's spherical end and celebrating with a gentle, 'Come.'"
Time returns to the places we've been. One says, "That memory is far." Another, "The moment is here to stay." Yesterday can be put down but the nows of that day pop up from the ground without notice or sound to delight or confound– it depends on the soiled seconds into which it was bound– moments become recollections and recollections are seeds with a life of their own.
Promises and hope gentleness and rage a touch, a glance a well-appointed room or a half-written page– all are sown into our skin and find their rest in smiles and tears repose and toil love and loss freedom and cost and the way the sunlight lay across the earth at the end or when it all began.
"That was back then," said he. "That is today," said she. The Minutes listened closely, "There is wisdom in both." Time smiled wryly crouched smugly and quietly behind an Autumn tree waiting for the final leaf to fall.
Jill Szoo Wilson 