We write on Time
until our rhyme
runs out,
until the chalk itself
has dwindled to a nub
and less than that,
a smudge of powder
on a fingertip,
a powder shed
upon the ground.

Our frail agency
in the world, this:
our brave chalk line,
our mark on Time —
first firm, then skipping
like a vapour trail,
and soon enough rubbed out
by Time’s felt brush
in Time’s fell hand
(or by a celestial Thumb.)

What then can our intrepid cursive prove?
Still, let us make our rhyme a rhyme of love.

From Pause for Breath (Biblioasis Press, 2009).
Used here with the author’s and publisher’s permission.