As the future is not given, known or assured,
we have but two points to see this life,
and in that breadth, that direction,
the arc of love connects time.
In each instant, our lives play out,
our presents become our pasts,
and in remembrance, never so full and alive,
as each still moment of you in my arms.
Time forever steals the subtleties,
cannot, in its straight line, resolve the nuance,
see in each point the life we see,
or bear, in the moment, all that is perceived.
As an arrow in flight only points from nock to tip,
not asking the bow, “Why?” or the sky, “To where?”
could not, in its headlong pursuit,
tell earth from grass or sea from sky,
tell rush of air from the whisper of God,
tell the Mortal from the Devine
or tell of its knowing in its flight.
Time loses the sacred and we pray it returns
as trembling points in the arc.
Assent, turn, decline;
knowing the moments will return,
we will not know, again,
the parabola as arithmetic,
simply the moment added to each,
the moments of each added together,
or as exponential,
the product of the parabolica multiplied on itself;
is it seen the same,
as the instant all our moments have led to?
I have, from time, captured
the grace of your neck
that has on my hand, turned,
your face full to me,
your eyes opening to see me,
as I would only ever wish to be seen.
Soft and deep as the smile about you,
the curve of your hair upon your shoulder
clinging, as time and space, to you, as I do,
and, but not all,
as remembrance has so little to offer the present,
the casting of light on you.
In joy, each arc brought to loving sight
and the shadows envy
of the sun’s play on you.
Only the part of you that words can express,
only the portion of you for my senses,
only that window in time
that we look out at the world,
only then as full and continuous
as our time alive should be.
Though the arrow is, in all moments, still,
and in its space alone and unchanged,
any other would, by its motion, see the arc;
the trajectory of love is the parabolica.