Sitting at my table, looking at the clock,

its long finger pointing at the minutes,

while the shorter finger holds the hours down

like a thumb pushing in a tack to hold time still,

but nothing stops the orbit of those fingers.

Outside the wind is blowing and the trees

bend and sway in the wildness of this cold, grey day,

while I look at the clock, its fingers ignorant

of the wind and the beating of my heart,

or what is happening in this crazy world—

and I wish I did not have a clock

that measured out my days

but could eat when hunger called

and sleep when my eyes closed while reading

and wake up when the sun opened them,

and I could pour my tea when the water boiled

and plant the peas when the red buds

burst on the maple trees.

Sometimes, I wish I lived like geese

who know when to fly away to another sky

and return when their feathers speak.

I wish I lived outside of time—

that years did not exist, that age

was not how grey my hair is now

but how young I am inside,

my spirit green, my blue eyes

clear as cloudless skies.

I wish that time was burning in me like a candle

slowly dripping wax as it gives me light

until I’m just a flicker getting dim

and not afraid of darkness.

But here I am

the clock ignoring my wishes

like a lover who breaks my heart.