a

The days of jealousy piled high in the off season,
Blocking the lustre of the grandfather clock's face,
Able to spring there as it had long stopped,
Ever since the party, after finals, where a guest--
Noone could recall who invited them-- had stumbled,
Clattering into the clock. Its mechanism
Was mericfullly intact, but had stopped moving.
The chalet owner refused to get it repaired,
No guest staying long enough to sweep it away,
The dust becoming its own appeal, a new time
Where traces don't even linger, & domestic space scarcely
Opens out enough to make the shifting, the welcome
Of passages of air, the synchronisation of breeze
With the contours of a house needed to keep it clear,

Clattering into the snow. Pale corners gave up,
& the notice was passed on. Call it destiny
For lack of inclination to sit out the stream,
Wasting the silent lines' tension in the easier releases.
Would the foster home have called, was the refrain
She unsettled, only now to summon older stories,
The ones that crept up waiting for a reply, before
That too was cornered in the general appropriation of blossom,
From plant life to sketchbooks to animated projects,
The summer pouring over scrolls.

4-i-2022