Time

Time

I’ll tell you what – we are almost
run over by time – a Faulknerian
thing, perhaps. The ticking
does not stop. Away, away
the hours chime –
and us, running frenzied about.
But when we stop, somehow,
to rest – or when the head
no longer aches – words, again –
It always happens like this.
They save themselves up
during the busy days –
When we make ourselves
sit by the waters of a river,
by the floating
water sliding down –
When we sit awhile
in this constant place
of beginning – the night entering
its expected hour –
It is then –
Here –
That the words make their way
out – here where they unfold –
when the mind is quiet –
and the river is not.

Marian Haddad

Posted over on The Writer's Garret