[a poem I wrote yesterday]

Constancy

Time is filled--

as the sun will rise tomorrow
and the sun will set today
while it stays without rest

Still, it patiently traces the spinning world
As it circles the hearth that enlightens.

it almost feels like home
so far, far away
out of orbit

In the meantime the moon
Becomes a pesky fly to swat
As we chase the fading past
From our position.

It would be a crude and cruel joke
If we were really surprised--

if only we could laugh it off
if only we could cry it out
if only the ponderous pace
could lead us astray.

It all seems vain when time gets full.