These bones sag,
the craggy skin that loosely shrouds them
blistering with age
like pages of countless neglected tomes
I remember well
how my feet flew across the playground,
how these hands unlined
grasped eagerly at play and joyful mirth
I watch them play now
and lay my fear to rest for a time at least,
the beast of my pains
falling silent as songs fill my heart
Time is jealous—
time is a base and wrathful whore monger,
a money lender
preying upon the naive and hopeful
But for this moment,
for this graceful gracious laughing moment,
time means nothing
and love is everything that has ever been
Or ever will be
George Ellington 