A Moment in Time
March 28 2008


To fix a moment in time.
Pinning-down the here-and-now
by its coordinates
— a new millennium,
not much different than the old one,
a week into spring
night closing-in.
As lights blink-on cheerfully all over town,
this small city
somewhere in the middle of a vast dark continent.
And my own small pool of light,
enclosing a cluttered desk
and a blank page
and a well chewed pen,
now 15 lines in.

To fix a moment in time.
Like nailing jelly to the wall
— how nothing sticks
and memory plays tricks,
transforming everything.

To fix a moment in time.
As if I could reach back
and change one small thing.
The way a butterfly fluttering its wings
half a world away from here
can stir-up a hurricane;
or gently setting down,
tip bedrock
into earthquake.

Or to surrender, instead,
and let time drift.
Because what happened in the past can’t be fixed
and this exact moment is ineffable,
slipping from my grasp
just as I think I’ve captured it.