A Clock Face Stranger

By chance, as a dreamer I rarely counted fading moments,

but suddenly started to weigh paths against strangers

and I was startled to learn how much shorter this road bends.

I was the seeker that never traced these moments with patient sight before,

and went on boasting of golden dawns, flushed like harvest wine.

Yet today this evening the glass of the sundial wine discloses another

frail and chalk-white as a wind-beaten feather falls softly.

This once youthful vessel has slowly leaned toward silence,

and the remaining nights must be carried in halting strides.

In this truth , Too late arrives the warning that life's weaving already began to unravel;

and now, what journey still endures?

Ancient flame and faithful currents whisper dimly through these worn out bones,

and neither joy nor grief replies to their cadence.

A slender kindness must be sharpened to pierce through longing;

the shadow-clock that restores hours is, clearly, a myth.

Alley songs, softly climbing beneath burning lantern haze,

beckon this lonely drifter to wander and sing beside them.

Now even imagining drains the heartbeat;

a moment’s rising, then a slow unraveling as time drifts away.