Watches don’t tell the time,
they manifest it.
The various little voices that tick out
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