There’s a golden clock

In a clear glass dome

Above six figures in a circle

On the fireplace mantle.


I remember Grandma when I was a young girl.

She laughed and baked and gardened

And sat in her chair and read.

So the clock ticked a happy tune

And the figures beneath it danced.


Slowly she changed as I grew up.

She yelled and burned bacon and abandoned her flowers

And read the same book for a year.

They called it Alzheimer’s—

And the clock kept time wrong,

And the figures beneath it rarely danced.


Now Grandma’s healed,

Her memory’s back,

She laughs and gardens again in paradise.

But the clock’s only right two times a day,

And the figures beneath it are stilled forever.


I’m not sure if I like this one or not, but it’s been a bit since I wrote anything, so I thought I’d share this.  Also, I’m considering starting/continuing another short-ish story (hopefully it won’t grow into the monster that The Weavers’ Blessing turned into, haha).  What are your thoughts?  Think I should continue Lady Elizabeth?  Start something new?  Keep writing poetry and random prose thoughts?

4 thoughts on “The Clock

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