Poetry About Clocks

The hall clock clears its wooden throat. A kitchen hand advances past the hour. Upstairs, a watch sleeps in a drawer. Each mechanism agrees on the number. No clock can measure how long grief feels. Time keeps more than one kind of account.

The visible thing is only an entrance. A kitchen hand advances past the hour. Behind it waits a more difficult truth. Each mechanism agrees on the number. Silence gives the question room to deepen. Time keeps more than one kind of account.

The hall clock clears its wooden throat. Time moves, but the image does not leave. Upstairs, a watch sleeps in a drawer. It returns us to measured time, waiting, schedules, inheritance, mechanical rhythm, and the difference between clocks and lived hours. No clock can measure how long grief feels. The day continues with a more attentive heart.