as the grandfather clock ticks and chimes in the corner of the room,
you watch it and note how the pendulum swings back and forth.
it never ceases, changes, alters or backtracks. it knows its place,
and its place is here and there and not in between, but it must travel.
then you watch the hands, and the face, and see the intricacies
of the marble, the carving, the embellishments, the woodwork.
the sudden movement as time moves on and the hand jolts forward
draws your eye, and you feel unsettled. why ruin such a glorious instrument as time
with the passing of it, the loss of it?
because then there would be no clock.
