My Gingerly Relation With Time

And not by virtue of the clock winding one
Nor the crow husky calling and twilight bound
Does time, Seamstress Fair, shyly weaving
Let hang her needle quivering a quiet moment
Of shadow ceasing in their length and breadth
Made pearly by a moon not waxing nor waning
And those tragedy struck tears do freeze
Lovers tangled in their endless delight do rest
For moments innocuous as the birds crying
Or longing as stone-etched soil freshly turned
Beg belief in garments so terribly worn
Veils thin shot through by the light of stars
Ever-arching not beyond the iris of the soul
But contented and unmeasured in frail cloth
Now continue in one winter marching eve
And eagerly await another more delicately sown

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