How is it that moments bleed to days,
The days drift to months, to years,
Yet sacred times are forever fixed,
The times that mistral joys or fears.
Perceive a glance, an ache, a shiver,
Just like thousands of such kin before,
Grasp at neurons, or eyes, or even soul,
Then lost, they slip through a back door.
And life, like a river that gets away,
Yaws in an ever present evasion,
Except for those refreshing draughts,
When face in cold laps in libation.
A child aware that God is love,
A kiss in a quiet hall,
A hand enfolds a clammy palm,
First cry eyed through dewy orbs,
A second glowers at the touch of air,
And love in God feels very lost,
And lips that kiss may also curse,
And fingers also form to fists,
And cherubs wounded,
And cherubs wounded.
Time, like tears may be remembered,
As sacraments through the mundane,
Speaks and heals, as beauty, as truth,
Reveals the longing in all our pain.
And sacred time is forever fixed,
The time that mistrals joys and fears.
