We are that one grain of sand in the desert.
Alan Lightman, Probable Impossibilities
I stand alone on the scaffold of myself
wind blowing back memories
faded and familiar like old flannel shirts
swallows wing past, dressed in glossy blue
and my shaking hand scribbles stories
for my children and grandchildren who may
never read my words, too busy living
Their own lives in this inside-out world
where one child tastes a bullet
and another hits a home run
where a soldier bleeds far from home
and a young man is accepted to Harvard Law
where a midnight mother sings Hush Little Baby
while four horsemen hover
No way to stop time by taking the clock apart
or resetting the odometer
with the Phillips Head screwdriver
that your wife gave you last Christmas
along with another pair of black socks
no fermata on the final note
allowing a few extra beats
The garbage trucks grind their five a.m. arrival
the heat clicks on at six
sounds that used to be annoying
today I welcome them
as I clutch this trembling slice of reality
half way between the atoms and the stars
hugging my ghost gown of swallow feathers
