By Jessica W. Lawrence
This is not now.
This is everything
from that windy day, until now,
added up in memory.
This is not now.
This is tomorrow,
and the purpled dawn of last week,
and those times, in the summer, after
that.
This is not now,
but us.
We are not only now.
We are the damaged roots from before,
dirty and taupe underneath
and the browning leaves of after.
This is not now.
It is not a time, ticking, at all.
It is us,
and we are enough .