Time and Again


Where did the day go?
I remember some of its moments,
flying like planes so high they
caught the light, turned brilliant
as a morning star before they made
their metamorphosis to thunder,
while others ran like roots
below ephemeral grass, storing
the scent and feel of sun
so that far into winter one might
stretch from sleep and smile remembering
warmth under skin and drowsy eyes
closing to hold the color of twilight
over mountains—
and some few instants
pale and quiet, as if they waited
for time’s hurrying to pause
at further milestones in a far-off gesture
of belated prizing.