gripslip

Slipping.  Where is the friction that would afford
    a breathing space to find
        the handle on reality?
                                       None such.



It would only gum up the
    effortless smooth glide of time
        — lubricated by anticipation
        — accelerated by recollection



Striding, rolling, spinning, sliding, skating,
    mating the urge to become
      with the
    sorrow of lost ago



The trees know better, how to root and stand,
    How to shed their golden gloves to the wind.



But, bound to our want,
    we must ever chase next.
         And our hands,
              hands made for grasping,
              never once held fast to time.