Does it live on the bottom of a well,
the bristly back of an elephant,
or under furry-soft moss along a fallen tree?
Does it crouch in the crevices of caves,
under the eaves of fairy cottages,
or over the smile of the man-in-the-moon?
Where is time?
Is it tucked deep in the heart,
with old memories of lost love,
and ambitions that have crumbled?
Is it hidden in the mind,
trapped in formulae and fancies,
buried under long-unused ideas?
Where is time?
Does it flit, forever beyond our fingers
outstretched, fleet as the wings
of an owl or the feet of a fawn?
Is it running like swift spring streams,
chortling at us from just over the next rise,
or peering down from the treetops?
Where is time?
Does it hide in an hourglass
or stuck between calendar pages,
awaiting freedom by the flick of a hand?
Is it waiting to pounce upon us,
springing on our vulnerable souls
to carry us away at the end of days?
Where is time?
Living in the hollows of longing
and in the halls and homes of dear friends—
in children's laughter and delighted hearts.
It hangs on the tip of the crescent moon,
dripping over us in flickering shade
and sweet scents of summer hay fields.
Where is time?
Deep in the wells of our belovéd's eyes,
blue, yet flecked with one rusty speck
and over-full of sorrow and kindness.
It dwells in worlds pressed between
the pages of books, and in the notes
of a bird's song, evensong, all song.
Where is time?
In the pockets of jackets worn on
autumn hikes, full of leaves and pine cones—
and in brimming cups of fragrant tea.
It crowds in cookie crumbs shared
with family and friends, and spills
over our tongue, savouring memories.
Where is time?
Settled in the silence of a misty forest or
with a comfortable friend, and in the cries
of gulls and the sweep of crow's wings.
Under every dew-encrusted blade of grass,
crowning headstones, rippling in sandstone
and in the shore's ever-lapping waves. . .
Where, oh where, is time?
