If we could stop time,
and let our eyes roam along
the moments, and fix still with our
gaze the winding chain of being,
Then, for once, our fever would break.
We could study the angle of shrapnel
before it finds its still living flesh,
and rolling back, see the grenade blossom,
and the finger on the pin.
Nothing moves. Lightning remains poised with
Breath stops. Hearts are still.
It takes time,
All the world would be dead in amber,
except we have time to gather together the threads
of our own life,
and our own still becoming.