on some days it feels
like i’m digging into the guts
of intricate machinery
(such as the old grandfather clock
standing silently in the hall
with gears locked tight
not having chimed
for twenty years or more)
elbows deep in dust and debris
to find a reason why
those tiny cogs and wheels
no longer run with simple
synchronicity.
most days i’d rather sit
on a white wicker chair
shaded by the eaves
(as kids rocket past on bikes
or a family of finches play tag
darting from birch
to plum tree and back again
lost in the rhythm
of their pretty little lives)
while i’m torn once more
between the present moment
and another wistful
recollection.
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