So sublime these hands of time.
One passing two. Another the third.
Never they end nor can we bend them
To cease this theoretical construct.
No flower grows that it not knows
The memory of a seed in soil so rich.
The mountains rise from acid skies
To kiss the stars before becoming seas
That lap at the shores between you and me.
Tidal pulls make tidal pools of peace
In those moments when we collide.
Chaos caged and shuttered inside.
Vortices gone vapid. Evaporated.
Unto this time, I beg, return me
And cradle me between the ticks.
Image by Narovana.