The Stone Hand of Time

Cross-legged on a cold, storm-gray beach,
rimed with crystalline spray,
where great lands subduct beneath greater seas,

I discover Time.

Concentric ovals of ocean collapse
forever into the mud
part land, part sea.

Vulcan’s rock, ageless yet aged,
wait like peppercorn teeth to be
ground into dust.

The hammer of time
reels back and forth. Cracked hands
draw one-hour circles.

Time presses a thumbprint. Threads
of gray form a forest frosted.
Flesh withered like weathered leather.

Forgotten, the clock freezes,
accumulating dust.
Hands too weak to tell time.

All that remains is fire-forged ash
in the shape of a man.

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