.
We stick to what we know, what we can touch,
Hold in our hands; unable to foretell
What lies ahead, denying Time with such
Abandonment, pretending we are well
Aware of the truth, we close our eyes
To reason, snapping pictures of the here
And now, though, all the while we do realize
There’s more to carpe diem than a mere
Old book of snapshots on a dusty shelf,
Spring blooms pressed ‘tween the pages—in despair
We cling to them, as Time proceeds by stealth
To do his silent work, and when we care
__To listen, we can hear the silence and—
__If only for a moment—understand.
.
.
Sasha A. Palmer is a Russian-born writer and translator, who currently lives in Baltimore, MD. Sasha is the recipient of international awards in poetry and translation. Her work appeared in Writer’s Digest, Slovo/Word, Cardinal Points and elsewhere. Her website is www.sashaapalmer.com
I love this treatment of the subject of Time, which is a universal concern!
Thank you very much for your comment, Cynthia.
This poem keeps drawing me back.
It resonates with me in an unsettling way, on a level of myself that I’m not all that comfortable with.
Thank you, Joe, I appreciate your comment.
Sasha, this thought-provoking sonnet taps into the ever-present shadow of death and the melancholy of our own mortality perfectly. I like the way that Time hovers like the Grim Reaper throughout and the poignancy of your closing couplet is powerful, indeed. Thank you!
Thank you very much, Susan.