by Elizabeth Greene
Planets wheeling round the sun,
stars majestic in their courses,
with their circling hands
all say Time is round.
But this statue, perched near
the east end of the lake,
overlooking landscape in layers:
grass, then a larger strip of rippling water,
a thin strip of Wolfe Island,
with rolling trees and beanstalk skinny windmills,
then light blue dome of sky,
cement base with a silvery steel not quite triangle
surging upward—isosceles, but the sides don’t meet—
says, Time is a frame, a frame that
changes with every step
Time is fixed, yet responsive
to sunlight, fog, dusk, high noon,
flocks of geese in spring and fall,
deep snow or bright sub-zero winter air.
Walk under the silvery arms
through time and back,
as every step, each thought
proceeds through time until the end:
exploded star, fallen meteor
paused heart, stilled blood
turn time inside out,
as Emily Dickinson knew,
part of memory now,
beyond frame or circle.
Note: The Sculpture of Time is by Kosso Eloul.
— from Juniper Volume 2, Issue 3