TIME'S WEATHER

Hours, ages I spend
commuting up and down.
Train, landscape.
In spring each year
I strew beside fields
( today there are
yellow flowers, a stretch
of joyful fists…).
Time passes, the same,
ages, or minutes
or seconds, but
what actually passes?
Or stays?
You tell me. I don’t know..
We are simply born,
Then we grow.
Then we go.
Why? So simple
the unknown.

Same minutes, ages
waiting in my room
for the students’ parents
to come, and come
one by one.
Ages of different
sorts of hand-shaking
wet palms or parched,
thick, gritty or
smooth and thin and light
like a white feather,
seconds of time’s
weather.

And words, the same:
“ could do better, your son,
a bit lazy…well.. he is
absent-minded but maybe..
it’s normal at this young age..”
And it continues, the stage.
How old I really am
I don’t know.
( I am staring at the
yellow flowers,
at the imposing mystery
of their show)