For Magpie Tales: Mag 32
Tiny grains of sand falling through
narrowed aperture, moments in a life
constantly moving. Where do they find
that sand to represent time? Does it
come from some exotic place, space
that no one knows of? Or is it
manufactured for just that single
purpose? Who chooses the precise
dimensions of each grain to be strained
through that small opening?
Would prefer snowflakes, each one
distinctly different, no two alike.
This one full and fluffy to designate
joy of breathing in sunrise, or hard
packed with ice sharp enough to slice
skin on impact. That one heavy, moist
with sorrow that can be tasted on
extended tongue, laced with bitter
sweet intricacies of goodbye come
unexpectedly, or delicacy in hushed
moment of awed stillness.
Flakes in varied shapes and sizes, some
that lazily float forever or others driven
down by hand of fate indifferent at any
outcome. Yet, all would slowly melt,
mingle like tears shared in fun or sorrow,
blending, running all together like a life
well spent and fondly remembered. Poured
out on dry cracked soil, to nurture whatever
might come after.
Elizabeth Crawford 9/16/10