My time is called
borrowed. When

the children play
with sticks and rocks

and the sound of
their voices move

through evening like
glass through honey-

my time is sweetened.

The accurate shine
of light as it falls

in columns not unlike
a castle, the hours

when air becomes
ghostly, glowing buildings

becomes a sure time
to kneel, to pray.

How much time
does heart pump

through its veins? What
sand-filled hourglass

thins when turned
again, then again

and again- the endless
sifting down.

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