In its fullness
like time itself
the hour glass
holds lazy sand
moving in languorous sashay
a young unhurried thing
intent on the moment immediate.
Narrow passage speeds
the careless sand–
against its will–
until it finds itself again
in a space to breathe and leap or loll
as suits its mood.
We have known such places
where laughter let us see love unboxed.
Your eyes shone;
I felt a wall dissolve and thought,
Ahh!–long and slow
like certain summer nights,
and past that point of no return.
Home exists between us now
soon to be as familiar
as beloved well-worn socks.
Sands weather again the constrained corridor
begging space to do a wild can-can
too eager, crowding, bursting space.
The hour glass once broken
is not brought whole without good luck,
and even then will never be
its former perfect corridor ...
but bump and catch and pitch,
throwing its timing off.
We, hapless? spend time as though
without a consequence
in that narrowed way,
spread upon the mended place
clumped against a once smooth side.
How then do we pause the sands,
to grasp our bearings with each other?
Comes there in the flow
a certain time to bravely, earnestly
mull not what went wrong,
but what might possibly be left,
left to go right in this our glass
like the hour glass flawed?
And what, if one sees honestly,
I would be a happy grain of sand
passing through the narrow door,
trusting it to let us both move
more with than without each other,
forward, never back.
Late Summer, 2019