Its other face

It came up tonight all golden. As yellow and as round as the sun. Profound and articulate in its ascent. There should have been music or absolute silence to accompany it. The sound of an ever-rising wind. 

There's a great deal of time we merely wile away. There's some time we actually curse. We wish it never happened. We'd burn it if we could. 

But maybe there was a little precious time. Time you wished would never end. When you're in that kind of time, you want only more of it. Any other kind of time seems unbearable. 

You can call that kind of time love.