A clock made by your grandfather,
wood like cherries and chocolate blended and
cooking together. Then another, small and gold,
the eye of a bird with a turning pupil: Remembrance of musty smelling boxes
and nestled rings,
arthritic fingers slowly turning keys
and holding gemstones up to the light. Blink and wince
and wind again.
swinging arms with lapsing fingers
so reluctant as the swoosh past the eight and the ten and begin again.
The chime like lemons;
achy and sweet.
I imagine the stringy hands dig in their nails as they pass
not wanting to ring again.