Each moment,

no matter its presence,

would not steal

from any other moment,

its countenance,

its swiftness of duty,

or its loyalty to task.

Moments that seem to go by

hand in hand

or share the same breath,

ever arise to the same sun.

Each moment is unto itself

freshly anew, poignant,

and broadly posed

to embrace all embellishment

in passage.

There is no texture of time

that dresses each moment

so differently

as to not recognize

its kind, its manner,

and its kindred-ness of heart.

No moment

is impeded by assignment

nor distracted by its fanfare

nor labeled with importance

to seek more than its face

as a feather’s touch across ours

in gratitude.

Each moment comes,

presents itself for our deposition

and then is no more.

More pure than grains of sand,

mightily handing over

the myth of time

yet so bold

as to carry us along,

as intimate assistants

of our temporal journey . . .