Time

It is a strange sort of thing,

time.

Moving in waves,

forward and back,

picking up steam

in one moment,

lifeless,

and crawling

in the next. 

A stranger deep in song.

Measured by wet roads

and branches,

pinecones and snow,

birthdays

and Christmases,

and the tarnishing of rings.

A possessor of sounds past

and destroyer of innocence with deeds.

A friend bathing in water.

A mirror left hanging

in the doorway

we are too frightened 

to look into anymore.