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The Big Clock

by Kevin T. McEneaney
Wed Mar 7th, 2018

Oh, those old mysteries of lost childhood:

icebox, ice pic with shards glinting in sun,

gray cloudy days with rain dripping from eaves,

the blossoms of an apple tree in spring.

Poetry breathed in childhood at spry three

beside brilliant awakening of language

where the sound of words became enchanting:

robin, sparrow, colander, fork, hammer.

 

At seventy, poetry is poignant,

burdened with rue and refulgent wisdom.

Snowflakes drifting desultory in wind

dance with unpredictable dalliance

while one is more aware of mortal clay

with each rousing dawn of cloudy day.