Time often breaks things by forgetting where they are, the places they’ve been, how they went there and how they got back But mostly time breaks things through a constant piling up of seconds into minutes, minutes into hours, hours into days, days weeks, weeks months, months years. Moments become worlds with words to name them, and when words are used up, we count and number, calculate the space between each, map directions, until there are more worlds than compass points, more than mere moments hidden between the sweep of the second hand —a universe of moments, a private heaven dotted with stars whose light reaches our eyes only after they have begun to fade and die. And then, there is a moment when space becomes sky, sky becomes ocean, ocean becomes lake, lake pond, pond puddle, puddle tears.
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I am not a poetry fan, really. I feel most poetry difficult to relate to, to understand. I feel most poetry is just too personal, a code that only the poet has the key to. And then, sometimes, I read something that lights a light inside. And I re-read it. And again. And I don't know if I cracked the code or not but it doesn't matter -- the poem is now indeed a key to something personal, but personal to me this time. And it's pure magic. Thank you.
The flow of this poem was really good. The natural transition of things in the world that we're familiar with such as an ocean to a lake and then to a pond and so on grants a fascinating concept that maybe time doesn't break things but transforms them into something we may not recognize. For better or for worse. Really interesting play on 'if it ain't broke don't fix it' as you're talking about time. Almost a force of nature, time is unable to stop itself from transforming/breaking all the things we like.
My favorite line is: "a private heaven dotted with stars" that's then accompanied by an even better set of lines within one stanza. You nailed this one Paul!