You know this feeling, if you are not still young. Time is accelerating. I have my grandparents’ antique clock and I could swear that the tick-tock of the pendulum is twice as fast as it was when I was ten.
I look for ways to slow it down, images of hope and life, and hold fast.
What helps for you? What do you hold on to, as tightly as you can?
He always hopes that God will relent
and slow the dim, furious roar of years;
trees seen from a car window at night,
roads leaning into an obscure life.
How he dreads it, a door left open
and a cold draft on his heart.
His favorite colors are green and blue.
He loves trees that keep their organic
distance, wants the sky to stand
for everything in life.
When the camellias at his parents’ house
blaze up with colored Christmas lights
he has hope, seeing even here
the bush that burns is not consumed.
He stops at hospitals and nursery schools,
hardware stores, offices with the ticking
of machines. There are clocks everywhere,
and bathrooms. He talks to people
in love, smells the rain on warm asphalt.
He holds small animals close to himself
and weeps. He always hopes
that God will soon relent.
Gravity increases, so birds leave wires
with a dip first towards Earth,
struggling for lift. His music turns
sad, then angry, gray. At last,
it growls and shakes against the sky.
He rolls on, miles and time,
past sycamore windbreaks
and farmhouses in which
old black dogs are barking.
Camellias by Kyle Kimberlin
is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-
NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.