Counting Time

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

February 1 2023

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