Biding My Time

The little black clock,
with the slender red hand
measuring the seconds,
turns minutes into hours

now hours harden into days:
and the music you so easily made,
is no where heard, only
the soft melodies I sung
into your musician's ear
as you melted away from us.

time seems to turn on itself
as my every breath congeals
I watch, I wait, I watch
the tidy black clock
with the slender red hand
marking, marking, marking

Here on this dry, sunny day
time does not matter:
no movement forward, only back,
back to that one moment
of all moments
etched, as on glass,
in my mind's eye.

Since no clock on earth
can measure a grief's life,
let it tick with its face
turned away from me.

I will bide this time,
bargaining that my endurance
will outwit death
and the tidy black clock
with the slender red hand
will again mark
our hours together

It would be my reward
for a grief endured.

 

~Return To "Losing"