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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.
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Robyn Sarah was born in New York City to Canadian parents and grew up in Montreal, where she still lives. She wrote and enjoyed poetry as a child and is the author of ten poetry collections, two collections of short stories, and a book of essays on poetry. Robyn is presently serving her tenth and last year as poetry editor for Cormorant Books in Toronto. Her last poetry collection, My Shoes Are Killing Me (2015), won the Governor General’s Award for poetry — one of Canada’s highest literary honors. Sarah's most recent book is Music, Late and Soon, a memoir to be published later this year.
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69Dorcas:
Very nice. I can sense my smallness and the humbleness of what I feel and think is not really important in God's plan, still necessary to record my existence. It is succinct.
Posted 01/07/2012 12:16 PM
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dotief@comcast.net:
The tone of this piece felt very Shakespearean--almost Biblical in a King James sense. Wonderful poetry! I'm ready for my new year!
Posted 01/01/2012 07:40 PM
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Jo:
Sarah,
In between lots of family, I came in here for a glimpse of the poem for New Year's day. So glad I was amply rewarded. Reading you is a wonderful way to start the New Year. Cheers.
Posted 01/01/2012 02:05 PM
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