The wheel of seasons brings us back around to the same place every winter, and yet it isn't the same place.
The orbit of the earth spins us around the sun year after year, but it isn't the same year.
We are forever moving in time and space, always changing. The universe is an expanding exploration of uniqueness.
Before it, in it, and beyond it, though, is the timelessness of eternity, the stillness of complete presence.
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The Host of Time
A churning swirl of nebulae
Plays tricks with the light that
Takes eons to reach us here.
What happens over there is
Ahead of what is happening now,
And now is just a mote from the past.
Staring into the telescope
Becomes a periscope trapped
By perspective to indeterminate time.
We are all trapped in time
Without being able to know which time,
Except for how it feels like an old shirt.
Except for how it feels, we would know
Nothing -- neither the loss of those we loved
Nor their continued presence in the mind.
That warmth in the bed now dissipated
To an empty space that sags
Where the mattress remembers.
[Disposable Poem February 13, 2010]
Dr. Mike
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