How late it is

Today is a day of the heart
it is a water bucket,
      sloshing, it is a stone
      carried, it is
sand-blown desert, crescents
of shadow, movement.

This is a day of the legs
      which walk wooden
        in the way - all
miles tell their story:
to foot the dreadful
      road, rough-shod.

This is the day of the voice
      that talks carefully
      and is concealed.  Say
too much and danger comes -
        lips are sealed.

These are my hands - many
      things done and
      left undone - they are
work-wear still, they
      ply their trade.

This is the day of the unready:
      for what was, and is,
        and could be -
all acts and choices
      gone in distance -
I can only be today -

light strengthens and fades.

People wax and wane like moons

thin slivers of light
with a dark side and a 
bright, turning and facing

the endless dance of the spheres -

we move in space, our
ticking time the clockwork
sound that tells us how late
          it is -
    the eternal child plays.

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