The Windlass

Today it's Thursday. Wasn't it just 
Monday? Everything's moving too fast.

Every day seems to bring some new
betrayal of what we want to keep.

Buses and trains leave the station,
but at least they return. The neighbor's

dog barks when the postman brings the mail, 
yet I haven't heard from you. It's been

nearly five years. Still, I collect 
flickers of things— the shadow of leaves

on the trellis. Small, hard buds 
emerging from nodes on the fig tree, 

though the rest of it is still 
shrouded in winter sleep. Evening 

is a well into which the dark pours, 
so we can pull it up just one small pail 

at a time. But time, time is the windlass 
to which all things— and we— are lashed.