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The Hands of Time
by M. Peterson
Hands of time need not be those of a clock
Gazing upon my hands, once youthful, vibrant, lively
Now show the progression of age
The slow decrepity that has begun to make itself to home
Lost am I whilst I look upon them
Youthful heart and mind, yet bodily decline
Imprisoned in a tomb of mortal creation
No bars to its windows just blurred vision
Sharp mind and tongue behind elder tooth
Tight skin now sagging furrowed brow now lightened
Tall poise now a hunched slouch
No greek would carve this form from marble
Nor chip any fine stone to preserve
No poetic sonna spake in rhymed verse to commend
No brush to canvas to suspend
Long twiney fringer curve and bend
Knees pop crackle when bend
Herculean strength gone without a trace
Helplessness beckoned to croned side
Yet who sees this form for what it once was,
Now collector of antiqued dust
Some olding thing once prized
Slowly faded as some forgotten artifact in a daily museum
Who sees past these shallow years to the soul that withers
Who sees the silent memories fade
Who speaks to relics
Who mores the luster, save I
Who accounts the long marrowed hours, while the world revolves
Upon gossamer memorandum this humble vessel stands
Awaiting crawling things to soon ascend
To take flesh and bone to mother again
What root or tangled vine shall spring from death sublime
Will it be some pretty thing plucked by reapers scythe
Or some gnarled shrubbery
Who knows but the hands of time.
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