“Love is like an hourglass, with the heart filling up as the brain empties.”

Jules Renard

He has a wife
of continuity and light.
She unrolls the embroidery
of routine and life.

Sand holds the ocean’s edge,
makes waves on beaches,
measures time
in an hourglass,
reaches depths and heights
of infinity,
turns over
as the thread
of a needle
holds brittle beings together.

Sand carves endless shapes
like words in the roar
of sea breakers.

Gather either to inspect
with a magnifier of hope
but expect them to abrade
the soft insides
of untidy emotions.

Unless the grains
pick up stains of color
they remain dull
in a kaleidoscope
of spinning moods.

A poet passing through
gave him an hourglass
to remember her by
in a terminal world
where a million
bright moments remain
unsifted by screen.

He gave the hourglass to his wife.
She put it away
like one of her diamonds,
glass behind glass
without knowing its meaning.
Fragile beauty that it has,
it stays confined
to a framed cabinet
where it cannot be broken.

The magic continues
to fall through
a tunnel
only two heartbeats wide
with an illusion of a view.

A mosaic
of unexpressed tomorrows
erodes into reflections
which long
for the infrequent touch
of a simple dusting.

What a cold symbol
the hourglass turned
into from inexpressible
wishes of love.

Infinitesimal grains
collect into vast beaches
where waves break their backs
into frosted foam
which covers
and uncovers endlessly
with the making
and unmaking
of beds quilted
with a thousand desires.

Glass skies
encase a waterfall of tides,
arise with deep secrets,
give up tears,
mingle with clouds,
evaporate into the stratosphere
of wishes and wistfulness,
places where
sand and words cannot go.

I grasp timepools
in my hands,
sleek jewel boxes
of shell and bone,
transparent mysteries
as Pandora did.

Yet, these I cannot open.
These I cannot own.


~ by dianeklammer on February 20, 2013.

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