I cannot find THAT
which I’ve been searching within the hays of time.

it’s not a needle like the clocks have
that move in circles,
clockwise.

Minutes.
Seconds.

Counterclockwise.

Going back, resetting time,
to when the hays where pastures, green,
where horses galloped, fast.

Yet I

still
cannot find
THAT

which I

have searched
within the hays of time.
I rather lay on, over the grass,
close my eyes, feel the sun,
the greens, abound,

until my pastures become dry
until my pastures turn into the hays of time.

Nov 30, 2015

Written by: L.L.

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