3957. MAGIC TEXTILE HANDS

MAGIC TEXTILE HANDS

My meditation on the periwinkle and chickadee has

now passed away, and I remember nothing at all. Time

seems to pass so fast. When I was young, a young man

that is, everything seemed to take forever. Now, it's all

gone in a blink. I see so many things in a reverse

sort of blur. Trying to reach back, pulling things forward,

my hands grip for anything at all. The magic of time

is a carpet never tacked into place. Look out, I ask

you  -  see that old barn window now broken and

covered with a plastic that has torn in the wind  -

it too was once new; cows and sheep and a herdsman,

all sorts of things there. These days, it's more of a

ruin than even a shelter; a relic, a shrine to that which

has gone. My old Fordson tractor, tires flat, sinks into

a mud that first comes and then goes. The tractor,

alas, stays put. We are  -  all things  -  as old as

the hills. My very wistful manager tries singing

for me  -  the voice is as coarse as a saw.