The Yawn Between Hours
The plaza holds its breath.
A wind gathers,
but only enough to lift
the corners of yesterday’s paper.
I walk the edge —
stone to shadow,
shadow to stone —
smiling the smile
I made a couple of hours ago,
still warm in its pocket.
Visitors pose for a photograph
they will put off
for another hour,
or another day.
The fountain repeats itself,
water folding into water,
circles without departure.
Somewhere,
a sundial leans into the wrong hour,
its bronze hand
always too late.
The yawn arrives without warning,
a soft collapse of the face,
a brief surrender to the weight
of the afternoon.
And yet,
in the far corner,
a child’s shout
breaks the air —
a spark that rises,
then falls back
into the slow turning
of the plaza’s breath.
.
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Author:
crypticbard (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: September 23rd, 2025 06:18
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 4
- Users favorite of this poem: sorenbarrett, Tristan Robert Lange
Offline)
Comments2
Cryptic this poem contains depth of the past, procrastination of the present, great lines: smiling the smile I made a couple of hours ago, still warm in its pocket., a sundial leans into the wrong hour, its bronze hand always too late.) brought back to the present in the end by the child. Not yet sure whether to take the child as literal or an inner child's voice. Very nice my friend and a fave.
My friend, you’ve bottled that in-between hour beautifully. The plaza’s breath, the sundial lagging, even the warmth of an old smile...it all lingers in stillness until the child’s shout resets the scene. It feels like I’ve lived this moment, quietly waiting for time to move again. 🌹🖤🙏🕯️🐦⬛
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