As the envelope of our life-span, Time
Contains the fragments of our thoughts
That we remember and often forget.
Yet would Time be an indivisible integral
Dream made of inchoate fragments?
Like water-swathes, Time, I think,
Contains the day’s hours that diverge:
When the halcyon breeze eases my breath
Time, like iodine, seems organic as the sea.
The day becomes a tabula rasa,
The mind, a projective mirror, almost
An eye. After the day’s contents, sleep
And dreams, rejuvenate the day.
Each day becomes new.
Dreams, like Time, the recollected
And even the forgotten ones, clear
Remainders from their rubble.
Within the city’s green apertures
Our mind becomes like a slate-shaft.
Like an egg holding its yolk
Time, remains integral
In an ever-expanding present
Tangible and whole, a present
We do not wish to curtail nor stain
With the wrong ingredients.
Life’s river flows into an ever-
Transient current. The land yields fruit,
Barley and corn. The mind, in sustenance,
Integrates disparate dream-images.
Like the ocean’s currents, the present
Is flow of self into the self recognizing the other.
The present that contains us regenerates Time.