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.

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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?