It Is Time Poem by Daniel Brick

It is time the stone made an effort to flower.
Paul Celan

A lone horse recedes
into the middle distance
without any motion. A mist
denies us further observation.
We trust there are other horses.

A man and a woman are walking
in the field, pressing their bodies
against each other. The mist pools
around their shoes. "Look, darling, "
she says. "We are walking on clouds."

An owl, no doubt one of many, perches
on a maple branch. The possibility
he might fly into the mist cannot be
dismissed. He is one of the Lords of Night.

Night itself holds whatever scents the air
carries. There are pine scents, lilac scents,
scents of crushed leaves, and some might
perceive the subtle scent of river water
swirling over rocks and roots...

The owl begins to hoot
because it is time.
The horse returns to his fenced yard
because it is time.
The scents dissolve suddenly
because it is time.
The man and the woman kiss
as night air cools their checks
because it is time.

I cannot object to any of this.
It happens because something
wills it to be so. Or perhaps
because nothing stops it.
I know this with the certainty of
the crow, perched in a dead tree.
He has no need for human knowledge.
He is aware only of necessary things
His time is the best time.