June 2, 2016


I like the faint tick
of my clock
down the hall
late at night,
a reminder
of why I wind it
each Sunday morning,
to show the way
through the darkness,
like a flickering torch
barely visible
along the walls
of our passage,
its steady hands
forever on the mark.
If it's silent
when I awaken,
I think at first
it must be broken,
only to remember
I have probably
just forgotten.