Wind whistles in like it doesn’t know the right words but it’ll say something anyways,

I watch a truck inch along, not a care in the world but it’s next delivery. 

Time is strange, but you already knew that, didn’t you?

One of those things you know about time is not to waste it, so I’ll try not to waste yours. 

But what’s the use of words, if not to reflect,

Like a splash in a pond or a fractured mirror, we can see things, but never as they truly are. 

And perhaps that’s it, I think at last, 

Time isn’t the jagged cut along the shimmering surface,

Not a ripple spilling out along the Vermont lake, 

It’s not a crack,

It’s a scar,

A reminder of what’s been and of our lives perceived imperfections, 

That were strangely perfect the whole time.