Time is a candle
lit at birth,
burning through your life.
extinguished by strength,
a harsh wind of a worry
or the slow burn of a lifetime.
Time is a nail
hammering Christ
on his crooked cross.
Believe he is the sun
offering you one-way eternity
under his glow.
Time is illusion,
marbled moonlight,
creating lunar reflection.
Follow her cyclical game
and always return
from whence you came.
Below the hour-glass hills,
the weary mother clutches
new life, tip-toeing by
the frightful clock that
ticks its pendulum spoon
full of poison; a flame
wavering too soon.
She looks to Christ’s
arms bathed in red,
the sacrifice of being
both alive and dead;
that rocky road ahead
just too narrow-minded.
Tonight, the moon’s too bright
and she throws up her hand
at this trinity of predictable
mortality and fatal infinity,
preferring her own eyesight
as guide through the night.
I viewed this painting over the weekend in Luzerne, Switzerland, and I started penning this poem there in the museum. I’m not sure it’s ready yet, or that it will ever fully do the painting justice. I’m excited to hear your reactions to this contemplative verse.
Yard Sale of Thoughts 
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