“MOMENTS” by Bront Davis

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Are not minutes.
Minutes seem minute, suitable only
For traffic jams and standing in line

It is with minutes we count
The in-between, the travel-time
The minutia

Minutes only add up to hours
The material of our lives, perhaps
The space in which to live,
But not the moments

The moments resist classification
They are singular, unstrung
There is the moment of birth and
The moment of death
The moment when you first realize love is
Not only possible but deep
Or the moment of waking and
And finding that, despite all the likelihood,
You were still alive (moment of death postponed)

And these are profound times,
Times when one is caught up
Not in time but in some other, rarer, medium

However, as I’ve come to reckon that
The store of minutes allotted me is diminishing
And that possibly I’ve wasted more minutes
Than I have remaining

I’ve become a seeker of moments
Not content to wait for them
But looking for them
Learning how to see them

True, moments not so momentous as
Birth or death, but still
There is the light reflected on
The deep waters of gratitude

-Bront Davis

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