Still Life (edit)

[brynmawr1]

What is time? 

   A river that no dam can impede;
    an ocean without shore or horizon;
    the test against which we all must stand,
    or, simply, the between of now and not?

Our friend?

   Telling us when our parenting begins,
        when our eggs are done;
    giving a knowing nod to those who love.
  The measure of life’s tread.
  A panacea.

Our enemy?
   That holds the future hostage,
      denying the past.
  Punishing those who grieve,
      reminding us how long love is gone.

  Caught in its riptide,
      pulled beyond shore to no horizon
  where all clocks stop
     with dangled puppet.
  This house we live in our ruin.

What remedy?
  We catch a glimpse of time’s heel,
  measured in the pendulum’s swing.
  A lick quick repose at each stroke
  before waking to begin again.

  Without motion, 
  there is only now, no not.
  In the pendulum’s pause

  a stillness

  coveted by the living,
  only achieved by the dead.

or me, napping on the couch.

Time is 
 
a river that no dam can impede;
an ocean without shore or horizon;
the test against which we measure our worth,
or, simply, the between of now and not.
 
our friend.
 
The measure of our life’s tread;
telling us when our parenting begins,
when our eggs are done;
is said, to have no say on those who love.
It is the panacea.
 
the enemy.
 
That holds the future hostage,
denying the past.
Punishes those who grieve,
reminds us how long our love is gone,
plucks the flower before its due.
 
This house we live in becomes our ruin.
Caught in the riptide,
pulled from shore to horizon,
all clocks will stop.
Is there no remedy?
 
We catch a glimpse of time’s heel
measured in the swing of the pendulum.
The lick quick repose at each stroke,
before it wakes to begin again.
 
Kelvin knew the clue.
Temperature is the measure,
ironically, of molecular shiver
that ceases at the absolute of zero.
 
Without motion, 
there is only now and no not.
As at the pendulum’s repose,
or me, napping on the couch.