Ruth Jewell's "TIME" starts by trying to pin down something that can't be held. The opening words, "slippery, shiny, rushing, dark, twisted," make time feel like a living thing that keeps escaping. The speaker then rushes through huge and tiny moments alike: a universe born in a burst of light, day turning to night, fruit ripening and rotting, a baby's first step. The repeated word "TIME" works like a ticking clock, and the short lines make everything feel hurried. Even ordinary life, "work, sleep, work," seems to leave "not enough … time."
Then the poem hits the brakes with "STOP." The speaker pleads to simply "BE" in one moment and make it last. The lines grow slower and more desperate, and the speaker finally screams. But the wish fails. The last line has a quiet sadness: the speaker "slowly" falls into the next moment, unable to resist. The mood is breathless, then yearning, then helpless.