The great fear of the Maya was that Time would stop.
And if it should? The seasons calmly would continue,
But be no longer measure. Keeping to its venue,
High tide reverse and go unnoticed, no erosion
Confirm the aging of its beaches; drying, Ocean
Become no saltier; rain born of it not freshen;
The rising of the blood not ever reach to passion;
Eternal present merge the later and the sooner;
Our racing solar year fall back to match the lunar;
Radioactive or our own, decay not threaten;
The lower reaches of a water clock not wetten.
Section the tree to count its rings and you will see there
A disc as featureless as porcelain might be there.
Become a tabulated list of random numbers,
A calendar is not some duty that encumbers,
Though Julian, Gregorian, if we endow them,
Exact from us as much of Time as we allow them.
The Maya need not worry; of such bits and pieces
As we spare- and Creation-Time before it ceases
Will bear its sons away. Hearts old and fortunes wilting,
The sand-glass turns. It is Time’s stream, its threat of silting.