Lake of Time
If I were
to take these few minutes,
hold them,
precious,
never to return again,
somehow in my hands;
they would burn like ice
with all that they could be
still locked unseen within.
Then they would quickly
warm to me,
releasing themselves.
Maybe I could hold them,
a tiny lake in my hands.
Leaning over the edge,
I would see the sky reflected,
and the silent clouds,
moving.
© Bill Jeffers