Temporalia

By Linda Mills Woolsey When you read this poem, time vanishes. The words were set down and are. The hand that inscribed them appears in a line, reduced to a word. As you read it, the actual hand may be peeling an apple, carefully sending a spiral of red rind into the sunlight, or, it may have rotted-- only a core of bone remaining. Still, the conjuring words peel back time and in you the poem is now being written, the shadow of a living hand still falls across the page. ~~~~~ Next: April Snow