Atticus has a meeting for school today and returns to work next week. How does August barrel in at such an alarming speed every year? Couldn't it, just once, take its sweet time and meander into town, instead of plowing through and uprooting everything? Time is that strange, wibbly-wobbly* thing and we are somehow always in the middle of it. In honor of Barbara Crooker, this poem, and the arrival of August, maybe today would be a good day to steal some hammock time from Time.
In the Middle
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,
the chimes don't ring. One day I look out the window,
green summer, the next, the leaves have already fallen,
(Read the rest here.)
Be sure to catch the entire Poetry Friday round-up this week at
A(nother) Year of Reading, where Mary Lee is adjusting to August and the passage of time
in her own way, as a newly-retired teacher.
(Photo thanks to Pixabay.)
*Thank you, Tenth Doctor, for "wibbly-wobbly":