The Hourglass

She is troubled by what she can’t recall:
The point at which blood flooded her skin
Like red pools, blooming and spreading on snow,
Or for how long the sand,
In quiet tragedy, has been falling.

These ashes of minutes, cast without ceremony
As death is reversed with a turn,
Are immortal grains which mock her life.
At her will they up-end and rush
Anew with a phoenix shimmer.

A slither of cool across angular bones,
From the draft of an open door,
Comes like an intrusion
Or small panic in a minute’s wake.
Past scenes start growing small.

Winter sun glares wedding gold
And the dust is still unsettled;
Silently lifting towards the ceiling.
The walls will be silent too
And soothed by moonlight.

Minutes have always been structures.
To her they’ve housed moments and sounds;
Deadlines and progress and time to fuel purpose.
Too slight to embrace and too common to love,
They taper and fade.

The clock face on the wall is not unlike
Her own; moon-white and glowing
Upon dark matte paint like
A coin in the sea.
It ticks; she beats, and her chest ups-and-downs.

On this floor she remains.
The salt from her eyes has dried,
And the ticking journey of those timing arms
Will never see an end.
Black upon white; the long and the short,

In comfortable chase
Or devoted, diligent following.
There is time onto which she’ll always hold;
And with the hours she’ll see the picture
And know it was meant to be.

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