Like small notes
Slipped under the door
To someone who will come home
Later is a time that arrives
Almost at once;
And the moment that makes up the present
Becomes the past, with each tick
Of the clock;
Living only in memory.
Existing only in chronicles and history.
Life slips away
In the leaves, torn daily,
From the calendar
That mark the inexorable passage
Of time...and our lives upon this earth.