The Lowly Moment
Time drips like an IV injecting us with blank moments
running through our veins,
surging against the flow of our stoic indifference.
Come my heart and suck from there,
the emptiness, seed the moment
with breath that quickens.
Come my senses, see, hear, smell, taste and feel,
the want of the fertile moment,
pleading to be pregnant,
begging for life to beat against the invisible walls
which want more,
than to die an empty moment.
Listen, you can hear the silence
of aborted sterile moments, unfertilized,
lying dead in the coffin of neglect
Wake my soul and feed the infant moment
and then the next and then another,
until the making of an hour resounds in celebration,
Collect the hour and lay one upon another until a day is made,
a day, alive with imperishable moments
made from little pieces of eternity,
day upon a day and a year upon year,
until the drip lets loose its final drop and the last moment,
screams with exuberant finality.