Would time exist if you were not born?
Would that person you disdained and then kissed
rue the passage of the year as bereft
of spring, where jasmine scents in an arbor
and vanished words pierce the way to the heart
in a line of seconds and minutes, yet yawns
into elastic moments of day? This tick-tock
thing is but a man-made idea to chart
the world, a sand measurement that drains
down an hourglass toward an end. Know
timelessness from the Ganga's sacred water.
A hand smooths a growing bulge of skin,
a smile forms on the ones who have chosen to
initiate you into this stream of life. Soon
the pendulum will swing your unwritten story.
If you've any comment on this poem, Annie Bien would be pleased to hear from you.