The clock couldn't tell what kind
Of an awareness it had become and was
Unsure whether its apparent acceleration
Meant its own end was hastening, but
It could see from its fixed vantage point
The years now were whirling round.
Clouds became staccato changes
In the steadily flickering day and night.
The snows advanced, rose, and shrank.
The trees quivered continuously, growing
And shedding and regrowing leaves. People,
If that's what they were, flew by, shadows
Like fast flies. The clock wondered why
All this was happening, why it had been
Abandoned here. The most interesting
Item in its observed world was the house
In the aspens on the hill opposite, above
A seasonal creek. The clock felt that once
It had belonged to that house, or maybe
It just longed to be in a house at all. No one
Ever flitted in and out of the house's doors.
The white wall paint and the green trim
Of the gutters and shutters grew grey
And dim. Cracks appeared. One year
A tree seemed to materialize across the roof
That swayed under the new-fallen trunk.
Another year young branches reached out
Of the same roof like a raw bouquet.
When the roof finally surrendered
And even the walls disappeared in green
With each blossoming summer, the clock
Lost interest and wished only to stop,
But the thread of the stream came and went,
Came and went on its way to the unseen.
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