noclock

burros claim this arid garden:
nothing much happens here,
except
a rush of city people

out of touch
with the wonder of time,
going somewhere else

here, no outside news
to fear

nothing to do
that can't wait

yet, here is where we are
here is the center of all things

if distractions persist here
that remind you of
another life, another time
then looking further
means looking away

here, time is not measured
by clocks
here, the rhythms of each day
shower an indifferent land

not much has changed,
except
understanding time
has shaped this land too long
to allow us a drive-by taste