This poem was written for my friend R's recent Poetry Challenge.
Where does time live? This abstract,
this phantom does not exist until we
become aware of it, either by accident
or because it is thrust upon us.
Does it live in an alarm clock?
A history book?
A crow's foot?
A family tree?
A pocket watch?
Does it live in an Autumn leaf?
A forgotten wall?
A mossy patina?
A missing stone?
A cherished memory?
We often stumble upon it, surprised,
because we've managed to lose track of it
somehow; yet, how does one misplace
a thing so big as time?
