It's Still Life

Passing Days

The days bled together,
like watercolour sagging in the rain.
She tried to tack them down —
a mug’s steam,
the slant of three o’clock light —
but they wriggled free,
slippery as minnows.

What lingered was only sensation:
a Tuesday’s ghosted-warmth,
a Thursday’s pale chill.
And the uneasy thought
that time was being smuggled forward,
hand to hand,
like contraband in plain sight —
precious, uncountable,
and vanishing into
a future
just beyond her reach.