The Hyacinth Garden—Or Time

The girl came back late from the hyacinth garden with her hair wet—lips Upturned, waiting to be kissed—T.S. Eliot’s girl—he wrote of time past Contained in time future—the eternal present, the passe simple, the

Continuous moment we search for in time, through time, always Time—time is so many beats per minute, so many seconds, so many Instants, so many hours, so many days, weeks, and years—time is standing

Beside a river and tossing leaves in, one at a time, time after time—time is Standing on a porch in Virginia overlooking the Blue Ridge Mountains Listening to Blondie, “Time after time,”—time is riding the West Highland

Train from Glasgow to Oban with a walkman playing “Synchronicity” in my Ears, time is waiting for blue lines to appear, time is waiting for a baby to be Born, then waiting for a baby to sleep, then opening your arms to that child

Who grows up and comes home to do laundry and sleep and laugh late too Until you remember the tangible, tactile moments when you were up all Night and in the mornings the floor went all wavy—some of us are bakers

Who wake in the middle of the night to begin rolling out the dough, others Of us are night watchman who keep guard over us as we rest—my mother Used to sing me a lullabye, “Sleep my Child,” and put her warm hand on my

Forehead—I sang the same song to my children, who will perhaps sing that Song to the children they may have—time is watching your children grow Up—time is learning about what the grownups talked about in the kitchen

When they told you to go upstairs to bed—time is waiting to be tucked In—time is remembering the stories your parents told you—time is too fast Now, we need to find a way to slow it down, to still it every now and

Then—time is standing in the kitchen and pouring wine and clinking Glasses for the good times to come, but not forgetting all the good that has Been there all along—time is remembering the birdseed turning silver in

Twilight and vowing to look ahead, not behind—time after time—time is Minding our lives—time is jumping into bubbling hot springs in the Mediterranean sea and watching your body turn red—time is keeping time,

Keeping peace, keeping birth, keeping life—time is looking at the clock at The moment your children are born, the hands stand still and you will Remember those seconds as among the most precious—time is waking

In the middle of your life and realizing the best years are yet to come.

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