Presence is but a balance beam,
the thin, or ever expansive line
dividing past and future
in a measure of breaths.
It’s slippery if not gritted
and we tend to count the steps
we think we have left
over the strength of our legs,
over the snowflakes landing
on our upturned palms.
Can you marvel at their melting,
stay with them whilst they pass away
and soak into the skin which remains?
Can you appreciate the sky
as it waters your present
or are you so busy avoiding the cold
that your fingers burn
on an imaginary fireplace?