Adam stretches his arm
 The tip of his finger, 
 Few inches shy of the Immortal—
  
 Mirroring the painter and his brush
 Reaching for the ceiling chapel
 Praying for resurrection—
  
 Or was it the other way around?
 Did Michelangelo intend to show
 An old God, aided by angles,
  
 Bent on reaching progeny,
 Reincarnation, extension, 
 A future to look forward to? 
  
 Something that will endure, 
 A repository of memory,
 Like photograph, portrait, art?
  
 I wonder whether we are ghosts passing 
 Through the permanent god of Time
  
 Or mere monuments through which fleeting Time 
 Attempts to solidify its place. I wander.