It may come to be true, what they say.
I’ve no measure to compare.
Heartbreak and betrayals, yes, But no death so close to be as though, a limb is gone, as if the winter did not, and will not, end.
And the colours that filled the senses have been reduced, to scales of grey.
What do they say about time?
That it heals all wounds, yes, but also that time is money, and waits for no one. That the two most powerful warriors are patience and time (which is the wisest
counsellor of all and also discloses the truth).
I am confused. I cannot seem to move in time. I am out of sync with the minutes and hours. My sleep is strange, fitful, fleeting, maddeningly without rest. I experience time as a toil. The flicker of one moment to the next as the sharpest of slivers. Barely felt at entry, they remain under the skin to spark and smart.
And if time is money, then Does money heal all wounds? Could my grief be allayed with coin? Some vast inheritance? Would that anesthetize the pain? Would bliss then enter in?
I did have great patience, Once, Long before this. Patience that turned to stoicism. Acceptance, tolerance. Resolve. Regrets? Oh, yes.
Perhaps that is the mark
of a life well lived? That I reached, and could not
grasp. That certain
simple pleasures should not be mine. Lend me your wisdom, For time will not counsel me. I do ruminate, and ponder. I rail against the futility I encounter. And,
I do reach, when I can, toward
Why are we here? What have I to learn?
We two did share
simple pleasures: The Windsor Market; All Saint’s Choir; Gisele and Swan Lake; The Library; The Little Match Girl and Cyrano; the Rubaiyat at daybreak and coffee and liqueurs at night;
Huron's summer waters; Algonquin Park in every season.
Laughter, and chiding, and calm. Your soft breath in sleep, as you kept close to your treasure.
You were there, Always there. To listen, To watch over. To guide and give.
I would have had you Live to the end of my days.
They do also say: Time is precious.