Watches don’t tell the time,

they manifest it.

The various little voices that tick out

speculative moments:

the second, the minute, the hour,

all accordion noise to waltz

through the seasons of our lives.


Where the passing of time is measured

by the heat of the summer sun, its

mercurial reflection on winter snows

and the contradiction of immortal death

in autumn; ocher and Indian red leaves

evidence that the human life is staged.

From tiny limbs and little fingers to

gray and useless bodies, with any luck

our memories still intact.


For the metal and black painted arms

around the numbered face, circumambulate

and its sounds are traditional.

This inert thing becomes flesh with each

click and lusty tick of its orbit.

Until it winds down with a sudden