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Posts Tagged ‘finger’

A series of opening.

Waiting. Closing. Life.

It started when you came

out from your mother’s womb.

With a cry loud enough

to rouse the world

from its deep sleep.

And the breaking of dawn

opening the earth’s curtains

like little fingers of light

slipping into space, entering

by the window.

 

For the longest time,

you inhabit that space,

eager in the waiting

of opening your eyes

each morning to see

that the world changes

outside while taking it in.

Waiting for the signals,

the pulses and heartbeats.

Speeding along with days,

pacing with hurried footsteps

in that familiar cycle.

 

Only to find that beginnings

anticipate endings. A book

closing its chapters winding

down through changes until

reaching its climax. At last.

Ending with the earth’s curtains

closing like womb, too. With you.

Like clods of earth falling

down into that space, night

softly crying to its deep sleep.

Shutting off the light, leaving

by the door.

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That is when I would want to stop

thinking about numbers. Straining my eyes

glued to the pages of the calendar

pinned on the wall, I marked of days

in and out.  In a work life punching timecard.

 

You never knew how stressful it was,

to run alongside the clock ticking deadline.

And seeing life like a finish line,

guessing as if today  I would be fired,

saying this day would be toast to the last.

 

Number is a finite word.  For me, an illusion

that therein we draw our strength, our definition.

If dying is a painful exercise of keeping track,

and if calendars and clocks are its devices,

then I should shred them all together into pieces.

 

I’ll proceed cutting my fingers straight,

until I only have zero devoiding myself of order.

I would not want to buy the minutes,

and the hours.  And of the days expanding

into months and years wanting to live longer.

 

When I die, so sure that I’ll predictably belong

to some cold stark concrete listed with names.

Informing humankind of milestones in a file

cataloguing folder of the year I was born

and the year that I finally stopped counting.

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