Time too is afraid of passing, is riddled with holes
through which time feels itself leaking.
Time sweats in the middle of the night
when all the other dimensions are sleeping.
Time has lost every picture of itself as a child.
Now time is old, leathery and slow.
Can’t sneak up on anyone anymore,
Can’t hide in the grass, can’t run, can’t catch.
Can’t figure out how not to trample
what it means to bless.
They’re reading Tarot cards right now,
in the little pink house with the sign in the yard.
Shadows spider across still-green lawn
whose fate, so far, defies the frosts.
Someone asks the right question,
draws the right card.
Many cups in the immediate future;
radiance pouring down.
They know the future,
the creatures in the yard:
night, thirst, frost.
Only the sapiens in the house believe
fire, water, air, and earth
would bother to reveal
when to fear and love.
The one who’s paying
draws another card.
Outside, in the yard,
a squirrel noses seed that fell
like radiance, from above.