All But The Precious Now

My, we are pressed for time, a constant climb

Always from where we were to where we are

The rubric of its tick-tock pantomime

Drains eons into Bygone’s phantom bar

Where, where we are is quite enough, it seems

To keep us pressed for time, the breath of years

A canopy of quandary and dreams

Pressed to a page of day that disappears

Into a season-salted tide; we sail

Pressed hard by time and its transient travail

Heave-ho and off we go, dawn drains night’s deep

A sea of opportunity expands

And envelopes dreamlands still half-asleep

With what time presses into ancient sands

The Very Thing that Is and none can stay

Like leaf that breaks the bud that cannot bind

The Ordinance of nature’s seamless sway

A little bloom soon scattered where the grind

Of what remains tramples beneath its feet

All but the echo of love’s bitter-sweet

Subtle, time’s meeting-greeting silhouette

Presses to hour-passage the design

Of that which we cannot quite picture yet

Like buds dangling unopened on a vine

Where, where we are unfolds to where we were

And a new where-we-are commands our stare

Time’s presses do not pause, winter-summer

A  kaleidoscope of hope and care

And prayer, for where we are, pressed by a wave

That leads us through the doorway of the grave

A penny for your thoughts, make it a dime

What do you think of this pink-blue applause

That wraps itself in gauze shimmers called Time

While, all the while turning our Is to Was?

Aha, aha, we say, then change our view

The green of youth jaded, a faded flow’r

And what we vowed we never would, we do

Because no one can override the pow’r

Where hour plays no favorites, its caress

A constant harvesting into Time’s press

Small graces fill faces with wonder, oh,

What is man that we are privy to this

Arrangement of moments that ebb and flow

Onward, forward toward what Was from Is

Hello, farewell, such sacred Tenderness

Addresses smile and tear; a quickened quaff

Of common firsts and lasts, they coalesce

Creating masterpieces we call Love

Where Time presses and winnows from our hold

All but the precious Now that soon runs cold

The climax on this countdown of life’s clock

Will stop us in our tracks; come, live, laugh, love

Enjoy the courtesy of ticks and tocks

That soon unlocks thought’s tender treasure trove

Of days gone by…a sigh on trembling lips

Where even Now we cannot long lament

The Constant of ephemeral fellowships

Lest we indulge the heart with discontent

For we, though pressed for and by time admit

We barely grasp the gifted gasp of it

© Janet Martin

Happy 18th Birthday, Matt!