this is time;
cedar shingles that
tell of seasons,
weather-worn and gray.

a question unasked.
a touch of passion
left hanging.
time is healing
in scattered pieces;
small fractions
of a face
once kissed &
now forgotten.
time is a name,
one called out
in a dream
& unanswered in
this is time;
a boy of innocence
becoming a man
far too soon,
holding steady,
holding shelter,
holding words.
time hasn’t moved,
just the distance
from my fingertips
to yours,
from my mouth
to your body.
this is time;
a face
aged by life,
wrinkled and worn,
with eyes
that burn with such
fearsome intensity.
a gift given by time,
only by time.