If I Were a Poet

Some say time is a river.
If so, it’s a frozen one.
Memories, like snowflakes, fall;
piling up—deeper, deeper.

It grows, until
it begins to slide,
creeping across centuries to the sea.

Layers of days,
today upon yesterday,
yesterday upon last week.
Weeks upon years, until
pages flow downhill,
and,
breaking free,
this poem floats away.