This poem leapt at me this morning. Oddly and justly, only yesterday I looked at the clock on our fireplace mantle, a clock that belonged to my grandfather, and it was 9:20 a.m. I thought, "Oh, I need to wind that. I so often forget...."
Perfect and poignant, then, for this day, this season, for the elusive hours of our lives.
by Barbara Crooker
of a life that's as complicated as everyone else's,
struggling for balance, juggling time.
The mantle clock that was my grandfather's
has stopped at 9:20; we haven't had time
to get it repaired. The brass pendulum is still,
(Read the rest here, at The Writer's Almanac.)