poem: New Year's
"The solstice isn't real", he said.
"It's a cosmological event!" I said.
More real than numbers, 2013, 2014...
Or something in the 5000's, depending.
The stubborn suborning of time to mind,
the mental clack and clatter of stones in a sack,
or marks on a stone.
I do know how dark it is how early in the day,
as I travel home, feel desert air abruptly cold.
2 weeks ago I saw the mountain glisten like a pink quartz,
late sun tint on snow.
A low cloud obscured the base, making it seem
as if the whole thing floated in mid-air,
THAT pink, THAT fleeting.
That memory, that mountain.
Breathless, still, as I recreate it in my mind.
I'd rather breathe that pink, that light.
This is how I measure time.
"It's a cosmological event!" I said.
More real than numbers, 2013, 2014...
Or something in the 5000's, depending.
The stubborn suborning of time to mind,
the mental clack and clatter of stones in a sack,
or marks on a stone.
I do know how dark it is how early in the day,
as I travel home, feel desert air abruptly cold.
2 weeks ago I saw the mountain glisten like a pink quartz,
late sun tint on snow.
A low cloud obscured the base, making it seem
as if the whole thing floated in mid-air,
THAT pink, THAT fleeting.
That memory, that mountain.
Breathless, still, as I recreate it in my mind.
I'd rather breathe that pink, that light.
This is how I measure time.