Time Just Is
by Odin Roark

Joined at the hip,
Time and existence
Remain on the move,
Invited or not,
Welcomed or rejected,
Time always has a place to be.

Arriving at birth,
We don’t notice at first
Our newly born crying nature.
Suckling becomes a perpetual wake-up call,
Helplessness but the ticking,
Arcing back and forth,
Moving ever closer to
The wailing burst,
Time’s blessed alarm.

Without Time’s cycle,
Anticipation would flounder ungrounded,
Missing sunrises,
Sunsets.
Seasons might be but anomalies,
Changes unaccountable,
A history without measurement.

To count on Time,
Is to trust that
Spring,
Summer,
Fall,
And winter,
Will always be.

That cell life began with duration,
That chronology eventually delivered seedlings,
Sprouting,
Blossoming,
Blooming,
Eventuating retirement’s mulch,
Is perfection’s evolution,
Unrestricted.

Nature’s perpetual countdown
Knows only beginning anew,
Cycling its tempo,
Beat,
Rhythm,
Measure,
And meter.

And of simpler listings…

Without Time,
We would be without calendars,
Birthdays without remembrance,
Anniversaries without starting points,
Holidays without anticipation,
Death with age unknown.

Time just is

For in its absence,
We might have to live
Without mind’s limitations.

Mmm.