
Telling Time
Curious the way the old clock
on the church steeple works
when it wants to. Fix it
as often as the church warden
will, each of its three faces
tells or un-tells the time.
One sweep of any brass hour
is as sure to move on,
as the daily news is to focus
on what I don’t want to know
but feel compelled to read.
Better to sleep on. Hands,
feet, everything stopped.
The old clock sits looking down
on a world that needs to stop ticking
and tocking in the predictable patterns--
cycles of repeated bad news,
interrupted too seldom by rare examples
of wisdom, kindness, generosity,
that wake us all to a much different day,
one where we are out of bed
before the clock sounds seven.
Curious how the old clock wakes up
then too, all six of its brass hands
moving for those few precious minutes
with the same steady strokes.
Curious the way the old clock
on the church steeple works
when it wants to. Fix it
as often as the church warden
will, each of its three faces
tells or un-tells the time.
One sweep of any brass hour
is as sure to move on,
as the daily news is to focus
on what I don’t want to know
but feel compelled to read.
Better to sleep on. Hands,
feet, everything stopped.
The old clock sits looking down
on a world that needs to stop ticking
and tocking in the predictable patterns--
cycles of repeated bad news,
interrupted too seldom by rare examples
of wisdom, kindness, generosity,
that wake us all to a much different day,
one where we are out of bed
before the clock sounds seven.
Curious how the old clock wakes up
then too, all six of its brass hands
moving for those few precious minutes
with the same steady strokes.