when I turn away. I hear time go, but when I turn back
around, time is gone. I listen to time laugh softly, full
of pity and condescension, while I grasp futilely at where it has
I made a net
of nettles to capture time. It hurts to hold (the net, not
time); time is soft and slippery, like the wings of a moth.
My net is
successful, time cries at its bondage. I am not sure what
to do with time; what does time eat? I feed time honeyed
milk from a raven's beak.
Time offers me
a secret in exchange for its freedom. I find time unhelpful and a
slovenly guest. A secret from time is preferable to time
our bargain is struck. I send time on its way with a bundle
of caraway seeds and a thorn to remember me by. What is the
secret? Time will tell, or rather, time has told.
is pleasant and it serves me well. The secret is content, but
gets jealous if I tell.