Found a leaf under an envelope tucked into a sacred compartment;
aside dried ink, a cross, three feathers.
Time keeps running, she knows instruments, impish & conceited.
She has everything to win, our loses, skies obey time.
Measured against her, she’s immortal aging, mocking, holding dreams in derision.
Time has a weakness, her jealousy, most determined to outwit herself—to no avail.
A laminated leaf, maybe frozen petals, an olden bible filled with pictures.
If the inanimate could dance, to wink, to speak—with minds stirring;
made of serenity, a place in time, a notion, a calling, at points, inversion.
A palm fraught by scars, voice-box specters, hearing time is most creative.
