Tags
nature, Philosophical, Philosophy, poetry, spiritual, Time, Writing
Time presses its soft weight to skin,
slips from the grip we tighten around,
as if to hold the seconds in place,
to freeze the air where breath once was.
But time keeps folding into itself,
drawing light from the edges of night,
and we, like stones, sit still, wait long,
as rivers carve our names into loss.
Ezekiel Fish 