I am that broken clock
that knows the time but can’t explain
the faint and tangy smell of hours
or the vibes of brass bells in my chest,
but recognizes the footfalls of a dog.
I can taste Meyer lemons in minutes
and still wonder where April’s cardinals went
when red meant bloody good achievement
or a carpet for the divine to sashay in
wielding feathered arrows I broke in anger.
The goal’s net of grace swings in storms
until we give up, go to bed
to read The Decameron in Italian.
Rub the grain on my mahogany casing
and savor the passing of certainty.
When I swallow past lives
what I choke out will be butterflies.
Papillon…a tongue softness licking
the day when the gong no longer bongs
in my silent, sober ears.
About the Poet
Tricia Knoll is a poet who lives in the Vermont woods with time to think about time. Her work appears widely in journals and four collections with a fifth, Checkered Mates, to come out in 2021. Website: triciaknoll.com