BLESSING XXXI

I write between the ticking of two clocks

made by Uncle Jack forty-seven years apart—

the mantel clock in the living room,

the wall clock in the foyer.

Their tick is comforting, human, imperfect.

They must be wound and regulated.

"Quartz movements are more accurate,

but they have no soul," he said.

Listening to his clocks scanning time,

I settle in the quiet, filtering out the world,

following the trail of an unheard voice—

it is myself, who only speaks to me.