A rabbit poses no match for the turtle.
This we learned as toddlers.
But it’s not about the race,
though time is a factor.

Time turns a clever corner
when turtle temperature drops.
In the pond’s muddy underworld,
heartrate recedes
to one beat in minutes.
Breathing moves to the tail
and nearly stops.
Digestion slows to a halt.
Meanwhile negligible senescence,
a further hitch in time,
leaves even centenarian organs
untouched by age’s cruel decline.

Should wonder need a further nudge,
remember the house the turtle wears,
a weight she drags cross field and pond
but promptly makes a home of infinity
and beyond.

So while the rabbit smugly snoozes,
our hearts stay rooted further on
with this reptilian time machine,
a figure of divine invention,
her carapace, her plastron,
and everything in between
built to sweeten the morsels of time
as they mellow and grow deeper.



MARIANNE BREMS is a long time writer of textbooks in her teaching area of English as a Second Language, but also loves to write whimsical poems. Her poems have appeared in Door Is A Jar, Mused, Soft Cartel, The Pangolin Review, and Right Hand Pointing. She lives in Northern California.