The Rooms Telling A Story In Time
Of checking in and checking out
In the quiet hours,
when peace finally descends,
you gently open the door.
Night after night,
checking that all is well.
They lay there, so serene.
Gentle, steady breaths.
Rejuvenating, growing stronger.
Lots to take in and look forward to.
Becoming, gaining independence.
You close the door,
content.
But you quickly pause,
gathering up strength.
Past, present and future,
a room apart.
You cross over to the other room.
Again quietly opening the door,
but with a heavy heart.
So incomprehensible.
Once strong, now so tender and frail.
Able to run after you years back,
now battling to move freely,
overcome with searing pain.
How the years took their toll.
You remember being held,
now you do the holding,
tomorrow you hold on to what was.
Held ransom by time,
the infinite giver and taker.
Past participles,
ever so compound,
but already continuous tense.
All you can do,
be (the) present.
These fleeting images irreconcilable,
leaving the heart tethered.
Woefully contemplating your place in time,
pondering the invisible hand.
The great conductor at work.
Your symphony enabled,
as you become attuned.
A given moment to shine,
until the signal is given.
When even the metronome will fall quiet.
Eventually all will be packed up,
and the room cleared out.
