Time Sits on the Windowsill
By mpgarofalo
Time loosens its sandals in the garden,
resting among rosemary and stones.
A breeze turns the pages of the afternoon,
each moment a leaf briefly lifted,
before settling back into the long green now.
Time sits on the windowsill like a tired coin,
sunlight counts its edges and forgets to return,
I fold my day into the pocket of a shirt---
the stitches hum with small, inevitable clocks,
and somewhere a minute learns to be brave.
Daybreak perches on the windowsill, a thin coin of light,
it counts the rooms awake with a slow, indifferent hand.
A kettle remembers how to begin; steam writes a small apology,
the street folds its shadow into a single neat crease,
and we cup our hands to catch whatever the morning offers.
Time sits on the windowsill like a tired bird,
counting the light into small, obedient coins.
A kettle remembers the hour before it sings,
the calendar peels itself away, slow as skin,
and we keep the fingerprints of what we almost did.
The Tick Tock Tractatus
Speaking of Time: The Poetic Investigations
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