Somebody, somewhere was talking to me about time travel, in a sort of a way, just yesterday. But time actually is travel, of course, leading eventually only to our memories, because, eventually, memories are all that we are made of. Sometimes we leave these little pieces of us behind, on our journey, only to have them float back past us, somewhere down river.

One should never explain the meaning of a poem, of course, but I didn’t want this one mistaken for others of mine that have no particular meaning at all.


time is just a river flowing nowhere


a clever trick of perception

no direction

but forward

toward nothing

more than memories

but there

somewhere upstream

you left a note

and let it float

upon a dream

a hymn

unsung ‘till now

to teach me how

to swim



6 thoughts on “Time

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