Still Time

Still the hands of time
while maples, leafed out atop the hills,
make canopies that ripple gently
with the kiss of July’s breath,
Then the glory days of August bloom
partner in dance with the sprightly song
of summer sun.

Another short one,
Leaves turning, falling ever faster,
the calendar growing thinner now
as the mind leans closer to
Autumn. But stay, September can wait.
Set silver notes afloat in sun shine;
there is still time.


It stands, has stood
for years in the corner
of the parlor,

that room updated now
to something less formal, a rumpus room
a den, call it what you will

the clock is there
standing as if that corner
were its birthright

imperial, impervious
and we fear it
the clock is not a god

it is not even a demon
though that
is harder to remember

tick, tock is not a language
the mainspring is not a brain
it is a mechanism

it needs no food
no vintage libation
some linseed oil will keep it

from cracking
an occasional pull
of its weighted chain

will keep it chiming
don’t mistake this constancy
for loyalty

nor its accuracy
for devotion — it is a product
of its making

it controls time
no more than a yardstick
controls distance

if the clock were gone
the corner would be empty
but time would not stop

Still there are times
I’d like to hold its hands

The Turning of the Hands

In the flow of lonely rivers
as they whisper to the sea,
the sighs of seasons past
keep you ever close to me

and though the way be weary
when roads run to twists and bends,
in the pale glow of moonlight
we will meet when journey ends.

If time moves much too slowly,
then dreams move much too fast
and in the turning of the hands,
there we shall meet at last.