Time and Again

by Frances Hall

Where did the day go?

I remember some of its moments,

flying like planes so high they

caught the light, turned brilliant

as a morning star before they made

their metamorphosis to thunder,

while others ran like roots

below ephemeral grass, storing

the scent and feel of sun

so that far into winter one might

stretch from sleep and smile remembering

warmth under skin and drowsy eyes

closing to hold the color of twilight

over mountains—

and some few instants

pale and quiet, as if they waited

for time’s hurrying to pause

at further milestones in a far-off gesture

of belated prizing.