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Our Glass For Two Sisters

our glass

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

unpinched, expansive

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

surrounding us,

soon to be as familiar

as beloved well-worn socks.

Sands weather again the constrained corridor

begging space to do a wild can-can

haphazardly perfect

authentically fun,

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,

lacks flaws?

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


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