The Sun Crys With You

Summer came.  Summer left.
Jean cuffs dragging at the heels

and the beginning of shed leaves,
orange and yellow, with them.

Laces broken at the basketball court,
sneaker stitches burst climbing hills

and frayed at the river,
caught in branches and shrubs by night.

The afternoon breeze
raises jacket zippers and the dead

memories in photographs
committed indefinitely.

I should have worn a hat
against the misting rain.

I remembered my sunglasses and I'm glad
the tears welling behind them

are my own to keep, cold
as worn pennies on my cheeks.

She is wearing her sunglasses too.
Please stop crying.

The Watchmaker

I come home
and the stencil and the etching acids
have been moved.  The fine punch
and whittle knife have moved.
The black cloth for the table,
the thin threaded screws in the stable,
the snips, the lenses,
the zero gauge wire unbended,
the chair, it's cushion, my glasses,
the magnifier, my glove, my apron,
needlenose and all, my two ounce hammer,
kerchief, and key ring,
my pointer, lucky leaf, and my awl.
The irons, the spreader, the cutting wheel,
the oils, my pencil and elbow rests,
napkins and scrap paper,
everything removed from the lamp chest
and left across the table like
an arm of the Milky Way.

Nothing glitters until the lamp is turned on.

From the doorway to our office

nothing is gone

in the light from the window moon shine.

"Time will come like a thief in the night"

reminds me not to fear.  The leather band
between the pincers and the gears
still in place
awaiting another's finger tips
to turn it's dial, the spring a spiral
of coiled silver, embedded,
the face ready to be set and the hands
glued in place with a fine tipped gun
and a more reliable hand.

The door shuts.  The key enters.