Only Time will Tell

He kept the old watch
on the nightstand beside his bed,
among his favorite novels
and books of poetry.
Every morning he wound it,
and every night
he checked the hands.

He said it had brought him luck.
He'd worn it through hard winters,
through nights on the streets,
through the funeral
and the long drive home.
Simon and Garfunkel
echoed in his bones.

When the house was quiet,
he sometimes spoke to it,
polished it nightly
until he could see
his reflection.
Then one morning
the hands stopped moving.

He shook it.
Opened the back.
Took it to an old friend
who drank and tinkered with time.
Nothing helped.

For a while
he moved through the days
as if something had been taken
from the world.
His shoulders slumped,
and his hound dog looked worried.

Then spring came.
The Concord grapes
swelled on the vines.
Rain filled the barrel.
His daughter called
just to talk.

That evening
he made walleye for dinner,
fried up with a little
cayenne and cardamom.

He stood at the window
and watched the garden turn green,
dandelions and violets
dotting the yard
like a Jackson Pollock painting.

The watch lay silent
among the books
on the nightstand beside his bed.
For the first time in years,
he let the morning come
without asking it
for anything.

He took the dog out
into the indigo dawn.