The speed of the outer rim
is little noticed in youth:
seconds grow to minutes,
minutes to hours,
spring to summer,
without end.
Age draws us on,
and gradually we notice
the ambient speed
of our relentless passage.
We sense, rather than see,
the spira mirabilis
shrinking in logarithmic glory
to depths
arcane and esoteric.
An ache here,
an ailment there,
searching for a memory
that continues to escape;
the baggage of years,
the wounds, the scars,
tender joys,
tumultuous love,
all weigh heavily
on failing shoulders
and weakening heart.
The speed increases progressively,
and we become obsessed
with slowing the descent:
diet, exercise, study,
philosophy, religion,
nothing decreases
the juggernaut in its plunge
to the obscure,
the unknown.
If we but abandon resistance,
embrace the breathless wonder
of life’s passage,
and yield to the message
that this moment is our gift,
and our gift is impermanence,
only then can we begin
to fully live,
and to seize our fleeting moment
under a dying sun.