Along the West Wind Drift
whatever versions of reality exist
might be frozen on the ice sheets,
seconds, hours, months…eons.
Time goes rigid.
Except for the passing of ships
and the sliding wind
nothing changes or moves
in the blue of perfect ice.
In warmer climes,
dotted with colors,
broken into fragments,
time gathers its denominations
on tree lined streets, behind fences,
in houses, in rooms, under stairs,
to be released in the daily pattern,
the ebb and flow of tides and traffic,
in rhythms of heartbeat and breath.
Somehow we know a unity in
the piecemeal of time’s strobe effect,
flashes of black and white on a darkroom wall
gather into this fabric of pictures.
Not the frozen blue confection,
but tenuous connections,
finding their way
through the light and dark patches
that separate us one from another.