And the words came to mind,
“How much does a moment weigh?”
The question, of course, is ridiculous
Because moments don’t have mass.
They’re intangible, untouchable.
They’re not here, then they are,
Then they pass unnoticed and unappreciated
Most of the time.
“How much does a moment weigh?”
The mental energy required to think this through
Is nothing more than a waste.
We might as well ask,
“How tall is color? What direction is fear?
What taste does an idea have
When it’s thought?”
“But how much does a moment weigh?”
If we must persist in asking the question,
Then I suppose moments in a way
Can have weight or a sense of gravity.
After all, they occupy space
In our day and leave indentations
Once they’re gone.
“How much does a moment weigh?”
The more time I spend considering this idea
The more logical it becomes.
It’s true that some moments feel light and breezy
As if they whip around corners to blow through our hair
And fill our lungs with the fragrance
Of pleasure and ease.
Now that I’ve started this, I’ll have to admit
That the comparison is undeniably apt.
Some moments feel dense and heavy
As if they burst in the room like a lumbering
Giant wrapped in thick folds
Of worry and woe.
Then I’m struck by this observation—
Our perceptions are fickle at best.
Because some moments seem heavy at first,
But as time passes it reduces
Their heft when we look back through
Eyes of experience.
Or who is there among us
Who hasn’t let a light moment slip
Past only after the fact
To have its significance and
Import grip our heart through the echo
Of its happening?
“How much does a moment weigh?”
I will concede. To speak of time in this manner
Can be helpful and fitting.
The weight of a moment
Is the weight we give
As we’re living it or reliving it
In our memory.