I study the hours on an heirloom watch,
Precious hours marked with diamonds
That scatter the sunlight over the room.
Since you left, I am obsessed with time,
Unsure if it is my enemy or my friend,
Knowing that all suffering ends in time.
I wonder if minutes might be redeemed
To some purpose, palliative and kind,
By watching them pass under the second hand,
Or spill in a silver stream through the hourglass,
The wavering thread of sand creating
A pyramid of minutes from its domed tower,
Where a phantom finger gently pushes down
On the white drift until the hour is over.
The hands of the pendulum clock atone
At noon, point to the zenith where the sun
Looks down upon our garden. Alone here
I ransom an hour of daylight,
Hovering over the gnomon of the sundial.
I’m furious at time, which has no end
And no beginning, no heart or balm to heal,
Blind with grief, sun-stricken and unable
To tell by sight an enemy from a friend.
– DANIEL MARK EPSTEIN