Let’s turn the hourglass on its side tonight
and lay on the carpet,
one on each side.
Our hands and eyes braided above time’s hairless head,
our ankles crossed beneath its hobbled feet.
Playing at parenthood, cocooning the tired tot between us in the bower.
Salty sand trapped in a transparent neck
thinner than the wrist that carries blood, to and fro,
an arid sea unable to escape into either past or prophecy.
Its customary habit, a militant march across rows of perfect calendar squares,
conquering its own increments of days, weeks, years
temporarily interrupted.
How does Time feel about this surprising intermission of its infinite-act play?
Is he the permanent prima donna, resentful when our typical homage to him,
of wristwatches and sundials, calendars and cuckoos
is wholeheartedly forsaken?
Or is it a relief? Does this give Time time–
–to take a shower, catch up on the crossword, call a friend?
My fingers sink into your yellow curls.
Waves ripple along my fingertips.
I am absorbed by liquid gold tenderness
carried along by the night’s currents
that will become my future
and my memory
but in this unmeasured moment
we call it love.
Wow! There are some beautiful, surprising images here and I love the ending.
Thank you so much, Sarah. I’m glad you liked it.
Lovely piece.
Just beautiful Laurie. You brought me into your precious loving moment. Thank you.
Just beautiful Laurie. You brought me into your precious loving moment. Thank you.