A Letter To My Friend, Time

Time, you know how much I cherish our friendship,
how thankful I am for what you do
to keep my life running,
and all life on track.
But there are some things we must discuss,
and I beg you,
as a friend,
to consider my thoughts:

It’s wonderful that you’re always present,
but sometimes I need a little space,
space to stretch and linger without
the pressure of your looming presence.
Perhaps you could wait in the shadows
at the start of each moment,
let the present play out before you
show yourself;
let my breath slow a bit,
let me inhale the colors and sounds
that surround me before
you jump out with your jazz hands
and remind me what’s next.
I understand you’re excited,
and I'm excited too,
but I fear there are too many “musts" as things stand,
too much urgency,
and the way I see it is that there’s a lot of you to go around
if you could only find it within yourself to be
a tad more generous.

You signpost the chapters of my life
and, in earnest,
I love what you’ve done with them,
how you’ve tied them each with a bow.
It’s just that I don’t feel there’s enough in them—
to me, they seem thin, measly,
and it’s not that they need more content,
but that they need more
scenes without dialogue,
scenes without any plot at all.
Could we expand those quiet spaces
with the emptiness and fullness
of thought;
those poetic effusions that often abide
with every moment you unfurl?
Because as things stand,
when the bow goes up, that’s it
and we’re on to the next before
I have a chance to appreciate the goodbye.

And what goodbyes!
You leave me with gorgeous images 
of moments gone by,
but what I long for,
is more of the real thing.
I know, of course, that “backward”
doesn’t exist in your directional vocabulary,
and so be it.
But from here on out
could you let these moments—
the ones I’m currently living—
be
just a little longer?
Could you let them linger so I can finally
step back and measure the beauty of your art
before you close the door again
and move me onward?

Perhaps an example would help—
Yesterday, do you remember, at the park?
The dog trotting off and cresting the hill.
I lost sight of him and
called for him to return,
but then I let it go,
so taken was I by the feel of soft grass against my neck,
and the silhouette of a man approaching,
his gate (I knew belonged to me)
haloed by the sun’s glow pouring over the mountains behind him;
I called out, “Peter!”
and the dog came bounding back over the hill,
catching sight of his other best friend,
my best friend,
and charging with hound-like speed into his embrace.
These moments, Time, would you let them be?
Would you let me bask in their loveliness
for more than your standard allotment?

They’re beauty, Time,
your beauty—
but how can I fully
appreciate what you do for me
when you take
away
your
gifts,
just
seconds
after
you
give
them?