In time

9 o’clock. Tick tock.
Someone should fix the clock.
February rains silver
on the brittle winter greens.
Soon we’ll be in July, then August.
They say we’re at the end this year;
how time passes.

I meant to write about
how all the water in the universe comes from the birth of stars
and how watching our accelerated time
is like driving through a rainy night,
catching specks of white in my head lights;

but then I took a walk along a road darkened
by rain spots and an overgrowth
of imaginary flowers
and thought, what a waste of my green hours,
and turned around.

At the bend,
I passed a cluster of daffodils:
yellow stars in an eroded sky
gone supernova
with the brightness of a 100 million suns.
By May, they’ll be black holes in pockets of the earth.

Time passes quickly along the slackened string.
I can measure time against
the birth and death of stars
and how shallow the cuts of water have become
upon the surfaces of Earth and Mars.
Every supernova spring is just the same
as the one before
until I stop
and forget about the time to come
and how it tends to pass.