I intended to write a poem of time. br The celestial seesaw br of sun and moon br toe-tapping the earth br marking their turn, br wiping their stardust feet br and washing up for dinner. br br But the poem is written - br perfect verses br punctuated by big bangs br and falling stars. br Days smaller than vowels br mark the breathing of time, br embers strewn from the fire br of universal things. br It is written. br br Yet poets will huddle br at the flames, br pencils sharpened, carving words br from the crackling timber. br They will scribble in vain br long after I sleep, br long after these words serve br as kindling for the hearth.