Time is not a river.
Rivers hurry and vanish.

Time is a well.

Stone-ringed, moss-dark,
fed by springs no hand can name.

At first light you lean over it,
in that blue hush before sound,
and wait
for whatever rises.

Some mornings the water comes up
clean as a held breath,
and you drink.

Other mornings the rope is heavy,
the bucket skims the damp stone,
and you doubt
there is anything left below.

Still, the well remains.

It refills in silence,
even when you forget it,
even when your thoughts have wandered—

to a breath beside you in the night,
to the work waiting on your desk,
to a single shining line in a book.

Time deepens itself in you.

It is not possessed.
It is tended.

A sentence read slowly.
A floor cleared of crumbs.
The bow drawn with steadiness.
A language spoken gently.
A child gathered against your chest.

By such gestures
the well widens,
the water sweetens.

Little is lost
in these halts and hesitations—

not the pauses between breaths,
not the minutes when nothing seems to move.

Here, attention
turns depth into time.

Lower the bucket with care;
it will rise full.

Pour a little back.

The well is fed
by what you have honored:

the careful work,
the careful love.

Time is not short.

Time is deep.