The Hours
The hours became scattered with
a gust of wind unusually warm and mighty,
marking the start of a new month.
Some landed over the redwood hills,
crushed underfoot of the happy hiker.
Some, tangled like tumbleweed,
rolled down dusty desert roads
leading nowhere.
Some sank to the depths of the Pacific,
creating cover for small creatures
hiding in the dark.
There were those that condensed into years
floating in cloud formations spanning across continents.
And those that crystalized into hundreds of cold minutes
in wintery spots waiting, waiting to thaw.
Location…composition.
It did not matter.
Only now does she realize.
They were not lost or wasted.
They were not borrowed or owed.
They did not fly or die.
The hours are artifacts of her past,
treasures in her present,
and beacons for her future.
Nonlinear and nonexistent,
the hours are always hers.
