Time

Spring’s lust spills through the humid air, having burst forth from tree and thistle, glistening in windless vapor, backlight by a sun whose piercing rays kindle the forest a fiery yellow. I see these flecks of new life floating in the contemplation of creation. The force of life here so powerful, deep in the seeded wood, but even in the midst of this rebirth there is darkness. Some remnant of a small creature is visible in the thick underbrush, her end the awaited sustenance of the greenery around her; mother earth completing her cycle.

So even ripe soil herself cannot relieve this pressure on my chest. For who among us does not plan their lives by weeks and months. Awaiting this next event, or that dreamed of goal, just around the corner. And so we surge forward, always onward as weeks and months blend into years, slipping away, by their smooth nature escaping our notice, never once the darkness contemplated; that dreamless sleep where self evaporates.

And why is it that I find my solace here? Joining a string of words about my mood, like crown over head…Do I slow that hourglass, fearfully stealing away a moment of solitude in which to be alone with the thoughts of my mind? Do I stay the minute hand from reaching the next bold-faced numeral as life’s pace bows humbly to the creeping seconds of my contemplations?

Perhaps it is not the act itself, but in spilling my soul in dots of multicolored ink, a splotch of yellow here, here green and red, I paint a bit of myself, of who I am. This small remnant left behind comforts the fear of black ends and shadows, for this piece of me has the power to live forever.