The Irrelevance of Time

You look at the clock in the antique shop,
so like the one you once owned
a dozen broken hearts ago,
more faded perhaps,
stained and it’s steady tick tock
is less certain, keeping a new kind of time,
one that is less rigid,
less tied into the mistaken identity
of regulator in chief or master
yardstick,
and more willing to admit
it’s fickleness,
how it dances with love,
and ticks off the slow dirge of mourning
completely differently.
more a thing of art
than a prison.

About this poem

We are always measuring time. We let it measure us and our world. So a day, a moment, a week without the yardstick, has such value. To just be. To bask in love. To mourn without deadlines or expectations. To trust somehow, all that needs to happen in our lives will. There is magic in that somehow. And power of a different kind.

The picture was taken at McCartee’s Barn, in Salem, NY. Fine Art and Antiques. Good coffee and warm friendship too. (A a few of my little paintings hang along side some of the local masters.)

Tom