The Timesmith - By: Poppy Walsh

With you, time is different—

it’s fluid like silk ribbons, boundlessly

rippling to the gold-stitched sea.

It’s elastic, and edging on moldable.

Your hands are hopeful, and strong—

palms bronze and shining, fingers light.

They pull and tear relentlessly,

like a sculptor clawing at clay.

But you are a different sort of sculptor,

your hands a cradle of time:

the loose, evasive artform of illusion.

You chisel and clench

it’s slippery movement,

shaping it into something useable,

something that won’t pool away

when you turn your back.

Time is in your hands

and we have a century;

we have one more golden second.

But this, this is how I will remember you:

steeled and smoky eyed, the teal

in your hair rippling like sunlit rivers,

and our arms one link of a delicate chain.

Knitted together, we walk through the cluttered,

salt sprayed streets, a glimpse of ocean behind us.

The sky is mottled monochrome;

we discuss the lonesome, solitary beauty of it.

Often, you laugh, and it is freeing

to watch you in these moments,

to hear the layered, shimmering sound—

the clinking of a sugar spoon

against the rim of a mug,

a rain-brushed willow tree—

and I wish we met when we were younger,

when there was more time to laugh like this.

There is nothing that will dampen

the violet flickerings of hollowness

clambering through me like flames.

A cavity of mauve storms through

every bone, every shifting of my arms,

and an invisible well of distance

swells between us with every passing minute,

uneasy and oiled as shipwrecked waters.

Why do I already miss you

when you’re here, and you’re breathing,

and you stand right next to me?

Your freckles are a sprinkling of stars

unfurled like fine mist; I count every one

and we already feel a country apart.

This spring is a lingering drop

of sweetness, ringed with the unspoken.

We are tight-lipped as we cross

away the days and flip the inky pages.

Almost all are clumsily slashed through,

and there are still so many things about you

I need to know, to learn.

We exist in the unfinished.

You and I—sitting, knees touching.

We hold a book that holds a garden,

our conversations the careful

unspooling of a red line of thread,

piling into crimson strands beside us.

I feel it tugging at my throat, my hands.

I reach forward and brush the glass-thin petals.

Two months left and it will never be enough.

Time is bargained for, eyes soft

as your silver-sharp tongue

barters for another second,

another rotation of the earth.

Maybe if we’re lucky, a sleepless week.

With every moment won, you seem to wither,

your breaths lagging as you stare up—at me.

Still, your smile is a molten river of sun.

But—you do not control time anymore,

and every effort is futile, wasteful.

The weaved tapestry of the gardens sing,

the magnolia trees a spray of light and petals.

Under their pink sleeved branches,

you are the remnants of a promise.

The sun pulses stronger now,

its heat a curse seared into my back.

When there is only hours left,

I look at every inch of your face.

You breathe and you do not cry,

strong and smooth-faced but cracking.

Those blue-eyed rivers streak your hair,

and I wish I could relive it all.

A drip of salted water unleashes itself,

and the fissures split, erasing your easy gaze.

And then, it happens—our time dries up,

and it is unremarkable, and too simple.

Nothing but a silvery echo is left,

a fish floundering on the pavement.

There are movements,

but I am unaware, or maybe unwilling.

The bells chime six times, and you stand.

Everything floats, the breeze pulls languidly.

I look up through the tearing in my chest

to see you there, illuminated.

You, the Timesmith, bronze hands

empty of all you crafted and labored on.

The minutes, the moments—gone—

but in the last wavering second, you smile—

and it is a bright far-flung promise,

violet-edged and golden as the setting sun.

Please give a detailed explanation about the meaning and main idea of this poem.

I wrote this poem for one of my closest friends who moved away across the country. We didn't have much time together but the time we did have was beautiful, and left a lasting impression on me. I learned so much from her and even though she lives far from me now, she is close to my heart, always.

Please explain your writing and thought process regarding this poem.

There was so much sadness and beauty surrounding our friendship and I wanted to express this feeling through words. I said goodbye to her one day afterschool and as I walked home through this city we both love so much, the poem came to me easily.

Why did you choose to write this poem?

I wanted to express how much she and our friendship means to me but words are a tricky thing, and elusive when I need them most. Writing helps me string words together to create a truth, and writing this poem let me do just that.