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THE WINDING OF THE CLOCK

It must be wound today!

Tick, Tick, Tick . . . that’s the sound.

Smooth walnut, the smell of kerosene in the glass.

Eight days then the turn of a cold brass key.

Another month, another year.

A tear shed for what was

A smile for what is yet to be.

Mother’s clock . . . it’s seen so much:

Wash day in town, Blind Justice on the stump,

The trains with fire and cinders, pride,

A gunshot, grief, loneliness

And then hope.

I guess it’s true; I am indeed a part of all I’ve met.

Pass it on, Pass it on

It MUST be wound today!

                                                                                   JEBIII
                                                                                                              1988

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