When we are young and top-heavy, feet stab floors with balance rare as disinterest;
The hourglass sand appears to never drain, days dilating into years;
And yet, beneath the weight of great potential, fourteen thousand
Feet above the firm and verdant lawn of recollection, each cohort
Of grains confined confront the present portal, chutes packed,
Shuffled forth by nervous elders stacked behind. Standing
-—in their primes-— feet squarely rooted to the floor,
Ears ring with curdled howls of those poured
Through the jump-door, until they’re
Hurtled out with a gruff
"Go! Go! Go!"
Now! Now?
NOW.
Into
The narrow
Breach of moment,
All cascading into
Memory at thirty-two
Feet per-second per-second,
Exactly as each precedent’s freefall.
The parachute blooms, the flash blinds:
The instant ends with a skyward jerk, once
Familiar sounds lurk far below this place, this
Softer time for quiet minds. Now we are old, unsound,
Top-heavy once more, groping two and three and four legs
At a time for flat ground and hard floor. As the pile grows
Of grains below, the gathering gains its own gravity; a greedy,
Rasping chorus calls, “Down here!” In trance, time appears to slip
Away the faster, the dance crescendos as the coda nears; isn’t that the
Funny thing with years? They count more in proportion than duration,
And we count each less with accumulation.
