Walking in loops around the church and the school this morning, after everyone has gone in for the opening bell, I think about the purposes of repetition.
A quilter gathers scraps to make a granny square. A fisherman has his knots.
In this, too: the acts of naming establish small differences in field after field of sameness, establish some kind of love.
The alternating blocks, the formal abutments. The slip and the halter and the noose.
Centuries ago, who first thought to observe time by the way stars crossed the meridian?
What is the name of that bird who makes one small flick in a flag that ripples?
I marvel at their subtly changing color as they all wheel and turn— one desire and its cream-colored underbelly, subsumed into the inaudible machine.
Within the drawer’s lined recesses, the gold watch that no one has remembered to wind.
How far has this instance drifted from universal time?
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.