The quickening of time.

flecks, flick, fall quick in the dead of night
and in silence, I’m as young as the early earth,
seeing past vast black; 
trees sway, faint, as sweet sentinels—

time quickens, in a tricky stillness
and now I am old, and time most fair
and most cruel; no shadows in the dark,
but the warmth of memory:

I smile, cry, it’s all the same to me,
while faint water pitter-patters,
weighted with time, as heavy as cloudy worry.