There was a day once
when I started to see it
dissect in slow motion:
that fraction of wind that

intertwines with allium
and hyacinth;
the fibers of spider silk
detaching from the upper

reach of the garden arbor
in the gaps between the
morning hours;
the inconstant yellow

of birch leaves suspended
in a certain angle of
October light.
I quarantine particles of

time. I pass microseconds
through a slurry of unhurried
moments, like the hazel that
bursts from your eyes across

the florescence of the hall,
the vapors of sadness
that rise in the space
between.

-- Claudine Nash