My years
are not marked
by seasons’ graceful turn
from white to green
and white again,

nor is my month reckoned
by the changing moon,
she who makes the tides.

I do not measure days
as light to dark
to light,
sun’s faithfulness
across the depth of sky;

and least of all,
the minutes and the hours:
they do not move
by circled sweep of hands
or shadow’s crawl
across a brassy disk.

My time,
my days
my hours stretch,
and count
not up
but down
when I am not with you

to the day
the hour
the moment

I hold you again
when all counting stops
and time for us
stands still
while clocks
race
on.

February 1 2023