The wall clock is rushing me once again,
I hear its incessant quick-talk-quick-talk,
How cold the face while its hands constrain,
Hands that first rebuff then tightly interlock.
Love I’ve not given, not nearly enough,
Morning kept her schedule, rigid and right,
Harried by long lists, poor afternoon chuffed,
Spent evening skipped then tripped over night.
Now I count stars and think on tomorrow,
There bids a much better use of my time,
Peace splints worn bones, enters raw marrow,
Tenders me verse in restorative rhyme.
Words slow hours for poetry welcomes
mere seconds that bring a trace of wisdom