If You Lived That Long - Nov 28 2025

 

If You Lived That Long

Nov 28 2025

Suddenly, slowly, glacially.

Deliberately, thoughtfully, methodically.

Compulsively, impulsively

disastrously. 

Everything has its speed.

Even time,

which may be as constant as they say it is

but doesn’t feel that way.

I tend to dawdle

defer

procrastinate. 

If not exactly glacial

then at least putting off.

Have you ever watched a stream

in the first weeks of winter

beginning to freeze?

How it starts with a thin crust of ice

clinging to the shore

and in the lee of rocks,

then overnight

extends further out

then further out the next.

And while it may recede here and there

grows inexorably,

invisibly thickening

closing in.

Until one clear cold morning, you notice it’s complete;

the river bridged,

so even the fast water 

down the middle

is somehow solid with ice.

Not thick enough to walk across

but looks it.

What was once a fast-moving stream

is now perfectly still.

Add a dusting of fresh white snow

and it’s pristine.

Was it weeks,

or did it freeze instantly?

When the last molecule

of liquid water

flipped to its crystal form,

and a seamless bridge of ice

locked into place.

Slowly …methodically …suddenly.

And if another ice age is about to start

 — because really, how could you tell — 

even glacially.

But all things pass,

and even ages

eventually end.

When, if you lived that long

you could watch the glaciers thaw,

see time

moving in reverse.

Adverbs are anathema in poetry. If the cardinal rule of good poetry is to show it, not say it, then adverbs do exactly what they shouldn’t. So not only are they lazy, they disrespect the reader by patronizing her:  too much hand-holding, too obviously spelling it out. 

“Suddenly”, tempting as it often is, is probably the worst actor in this. So I challenged myself: not only by starting to poem with that forbidden word, but by starting it with 9 adverbs in a row!

Forget about the regular tick-ticking of the clock, the tinny drumbeat of the metronome. Because time isn’t constant, it’s highly subjective. Or at least the perception of it is. I’m not sure how physicists measure time; but I sure know how regular people do!

Only for the sake of this poem am I a procrastinator. Actually, the real me is the opposite. Possibly even to a fault. (Judicious waiting sometimes works better than jumping the gun.) Because I may have over-corrected. I used to defer, and got into trouble for it. (I suspect I let perfectionism paralyze me.) So, did I learn my lesson too well?