The Weight of Time

Two poems on memory, pressure, and the body as a site where time leaves marks.

Breathing

In the mirror
of past and present
all is alive.
In the instant:
movement.
Alignment.
Behind me,
lived dreams,
moments held in place.
Ahead,
paths unopened,
untouched.
On this thin line
of bare direction
step follows step.
Now keeps growing.
In each breath,
time settles in layers.
When air leaves the body,
the trace turns fossil.
Skin shed.
Eyes sharpen.

Hands

Flayed hands.
Skin gives way.
Salt in every crack.
Weather
that wears things down.
Years of service.
The fingers remember.
What they touch
stays on the skin.
Bark.
Hardened hide.
At every rub,
more bone.
The hand knows.
It touches
and lets go.
What remains
is not an object.
It is an imprint.
Under the skin,
time keeps digging.