Time too is afraid of passing, is riddled with holes
through which time feels itself leaking.
Time sweats in the middle of the night
when all the other dimensions are sleeping.
Time has lost every picture of itself as a child.
Now time is old, leathery and slow.
Can't sneak up on anyone anymore,
Can't hide in the grass, can't run, can't catch.
Can't figure out how not to trample
what it means to bless.


About this poem
"When I was young, I wrote a lot about death, but since middle age has brought me closer to death, I find myself writing about time. I don't know if this change represents maturity or cowardice, but as 'Time Passes' suggests, over the decades, time and I have grown together. Sometimes, when I look in the mirror, I can't tell us apart."
-Joy Ladin

About Joy Ladin
Joy Ladin is the author of "The Definition of Joy" (Sheep Meadow Press, 2012) and "Impersonation," forthcoming from Sheep Meadow Press this year. She teaches at Yeshiva University and lives in Hadley, Mass.

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(c) 2015 Joy Ladin. Originally published by the Academy of American Poets, www.poets.org. Distributed by King Features Syndicate