The understanding of time
fleeting moments
never recaptured
sitting on windowsills
of the mind

In little jars and vases
fragments of the past
collide and are reborn
the cost is too dear
to step outside of
the window’s light

Daily prayers
collected and sent
for the  purpose of
extending days
like the long fingered
shadows of trees
reaching out at evening time

Faded memories
are reborn as
pirate ships in the mist
sailing into a fiery sunset
never to be seen again

Meanwhile time
the eternal predator
takes a bite out of
your morning toast
now dry and cold
from all that has transpired
in the blink of the eye

A STORM IS AT HAND

Her words were like a dark cloud,
blocking out the sun,
low hanging and ominous,
overpowering the day.

The grayness followed her
waiting for the storm to arrive.
The stillness was so thick
it was oppressive,
The silence was deafening.

Birds blackened the sky
with their escape route,
plucked feathers falling like rain.
Flowers withering under the weight.

Anguished faces turning upward,
as stale bread crumbs spill from their mouths.
Self-doubt creeping in,
as more clouds gather.

The sky is now black.
There is no place to run,
the storm is at hand.

Maybe poems are just vain attempts
of lost souls trying to find their way
through the mire of life. Grasping
at fleeting beauty, and delving into

dark psyches. Finding release in
their personal expression. A way for
the writer to purge their torments,
and empty themselves of their sins.

Using rhyme and metaphor to heal
the wounds of time, while trying to
sooth bruised egos. Maybe poems
are just vain attempts at immortality.

The diagnosis is still incomplete.

Ann Christine Tabaka, Hockessin, Delaware