Thousands of Seconds of Time

Thousands of Seconds of Time

Hark—stay thy breath. Let Time be made a glass,
Not clear, but filmed with hoarded yesterdays;
Not bent to prophecy, but held in pause,
Where numbered moments linger, undecayed.
I write no leaf that begs to turn its face,
But one that stiffens where the thought first stood,
Where rumor bears a circlet worn with age,
And rule forgets the brow it once addressed.
Here men protest, Surely this hour is new,
Yet place their feet where former footsteps sleep,
At morning’s edge, when hope is least aware
How often it repeats its opening vow.

Attend—not thee alone, but all who pass
Unknowing through the hour they occupy.
I speak a word weighed down beyond its use,
That murmur named design or hidden hand,
As though the world were stitched by secret craft.
Yet oft the frame stands bare to common sight:
Fear sets the pace, pride tints the chosen hue,
And want secures what patience might release.
And when the moment leans toward consequence,
Some decency—belated, unsure of step—
Extends itself and alters what was near.
Not always. Only just enough to ache.

A man upon a park bench breaks his bread
And scatters crumbs to birds of sable wing.
They wait. They watch. They step with measured care.
The stream of passing eyes records him not.
Perhaps he thinks these things. Perhaps he does not.
The birds accept what comes and do not ask.

Here—though all ordering be partial still—
Some shape emerges, faint and soon misplaced:
A Watchman rests upon a weathered wall,
His lamp unlit, his hearing turned to years.
The world replies in murmurs, low and spare,
And sets before his feet small signs like stones—
Not augury, but pattern worn by touch.
Each sign a door once nearly drawn aside.
Each door a question pressing without speech.

A woman stands within a narrow room
And stirs what time requires be finished here.
The vessel warms. The window dims, then clears.
Beyond the pane, the age rehearses claims.
Within, the hour completes what it began.
No larger scheme intrudes upon the task.

No lesson stays. The wheel consumes the wheel.
The taper wanes, then wakens in new hands.
The creatures keep their covenant with ground—
They seek no title, ask no further reach.
A dog lies still and listens to the air.
A horse attends the slope of distant sound.
The dark-winged bird receives what is, and waits.

Rise now—and fall. And rise. And never land.

I found a clock asleep in ancient cold,
Its hands restrained, though time had pressed them hard.
It points to almost. That alone it knows.
Almost were we made careful. Almost clear.
Almost did wisdom keep a steadier line.

Within my palm lie seconds pressed to stone—
Ten old as memory. One warm with now.
Each bears a question lacking edge or end.

Once, names were shaped to settle what was feared.
The storm took temper. The unknown took blame.
Words learned to weigh upon the things they marked.
Had no restraint delayed the eager tongue,
Then meaning stiffened past its first intent,
And speech itself grew heavy with its sound.

The man still feeds the birds. The crumbs grow few.
The birds adjust.

Once, signs were taken for sufficient cause,
And chance was dressed as ordinance and rule.
Had none examined what was quickly claimed,
Then judgment leaned toward whichever sign appeared,
And reason bowed to comfort dressed as law.

An older figure clears a narrow space,
Sets by what no longer serves its place.
The air recalls it briefly, then lets go.
Nothing declares itself redeemed or lost.

Once, help was praised beyond its mortal span,
And thanks forgot the measure of its due.
Had no reminder named the human scale,
Then care grew fixed, and difficult to question
Without the charge of disloyalty.

Once, uncertainty desired a contour
And found it close at hand, and grew content.
Had no delay interrupted the glance,
Then likeness narrowed, and the field grew small.

Once, withheld knowing felt like earned estate.
Had no accounting named the cost aloud,
Then insight closed upon itself, kept close.

Once, distress was watched as though it taught delight.
Had none withdrawn, unsettled by the sight,
Then feeling dulled, and sought a sharper turn.

Once, order feared the turning of a page.
Had nothing passed from hand to waiting hand,
Then speech grew spare, fit only certain sounds.

Once, want was set beyond the line of sight.
Had no habit leaned again toward notice,
Then absence gathered weight and silent force.

Once, the past was written to prefer itself.
Had no margin borne another mark,
Then memory resolved to single lines.

Once, the crafted thing outpaced the careful thought.
Had no maker paused before the final step,
Then speed assumed the right to lead the way.

A vessel lifts and moves through layered cloud.
A traveler rests among his numbered hours.
Below, the land rehearses its divisions.
He reads of endings. Reads of triumphs too.
Keeps neither near, yet does not set them down.
The passage continues.

Now comes the nearer hour, the glass-lit age.
The shrine is carried in the waiting palm.
Each voice a signal. Each murmur multiplied.
Truth asks for patience; crowds ask for return.
Reports outpace their own examination,
And choice begins to circle what it chose.

There drifts, at times, a far and thinning sound—
Not near enough to name, nor far to miss—
A narrow call the night did not invent,
Which neither warns nor comforts, only stays.
It passes. It returns. It is not kept.

Had restraint been set aside entirely,
Then judgment leaned upon its loudest claim,
Distance excused the narrowing of care,
And loss required assent to be declared.

Ask—without hunger for a closing word:
When did reserve become a mark of fault?
When did revision signal weakness first?
For songs instruct no ear that will not hold,
And years themselves have shown no gift for keeping
What once was heard and left unchanged.

The Watchman steps from stone. The gathering nods.
Not us. Not now. The seconds warm in sleeves,
Renamed, repurposed, carried into hours
That bear another face, but walk the same.

The bench remains. The quiet room grows still.
The cleared space waits, then fills with other things.
Another passage opens elsewhere on its own.

No answer comes. Nor is one owed.

The clock remains in cold. The hand points almost.
Time alters tone and calls the change sufficient.
And if this song leaves thee unsettled still—
Let it. For history moves just so:
Not taught, yet endlessly rehearsed.

Written by Marguerite Grace

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