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THE HOURGLASS
THE HOURGLASS
I watch the grains of sand as they slowly sift through my grandfather’s vintage hourglass. Time doesn’t move slowly, though. Instead, it seems as if the hourglass has cracked open, and all the sand is quickly spilling out.
I wonder if anyone else notices this phenomenon—how many days, minutes, and hours run through one’s fingers as if they had lost their weight, rushing past with a hush one can barely sense. I reach out, trying to cradle the fleeting seconds. Yet, they sift through my hands all the same, delicate and unstoppable.
grains slip away
each moment a whisper lost—
time's soft echo fades
Copyright ©
Sara Baker
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