Finite
We realize the wind just as we realize time.
Both we take for granted each day,
but when there is a storm,
we look up and see the bruised clouds,
watch the oak branches shudder with such violence.
Only when we look at ourselves in the mirror
do we acknowledge time, our reflection
better than the face of a clock
our wrinkles the closest second hand;
More accurate than the turning cogs.
Some days we look outside of ourselves
and time suddenly comes upon us; it stops us.
One day we will not feel the wind on our skin,
we will not hear it whistling like a kettle on high,
one day we will not be here; that is the best marker of time.
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