Generative

What time is it?

Long ago,
the clockmaker paused
to consider the last gear,
adjusted the pendulum
for the first click,
cocked his ear,
pulled the cord
to ratchet the wind,
and smiled.

Grandfather struck one,
ever so briefly fixing the locus
where she whiled
away the ambling days
on the homestead
of childhood,
cycling through
the progression of passages—
a quaver, a triumph, a should,
some recognized difference
that advanced each decade—
until nowadays
near the end of the present,
she contemplates
The time is always:

Promissory
little moments
when people help you
make a love story.