Time

Tragedy and euphoria are my era markers,
book marks between pages of time:
pre911 post 911, prePhD postPhD,
along with major life events:
before Raynah was born, after Raynah was born
and other creative endeavors:
greylight, solo show, post-prelims, dissertation space...

These events mark eras, recall a frozen moment in time
But to track time in motion, to mark its passage
I've come to rely upon the growth of trees and children: visual markers
revealing time's movement forward, despite my inward stillness,
despite my creative trance, despite my resistance to clocks.

Without the growth of trees and children,
time would pass me by
without my knowledge of its passing.

I look at the oak tree, the spruce, the cypress
and expect to see the small sprig I planted, or the sapling I transplanted
but instead I see a tree offering shade.

I look at Raynah and expect to see my small child with big eyes
but instead I see a young adult with contemplative eyes
holding her ground
rooted in maturing wisdom

And it becomes clear to me
that time is elusively perpetual
tangibly evident, purposefully relative
nuanced by the personal
even as it is universally standardized.

In this moment I mark my time
by fullness of moons and vocabularies of daughters,
creative contracts and swollen hearts,
time of new running, of five cats and ten goats,
as the time of the leaky roof and the time of music,
the time of long-awaited shift, the time of arrival,
the time of finally yes now

For the first time in a long time
I feel that I have time and that it is time
to do life
in time with myself