The windmills were all spinning as we passed,
Father and daughter in transit again,
Drought mountains handsomely mantled
In just enough later winter, early spring snow.
If I were to design a pocket-watch world
To drop on the heath of a parallel cosmos,
I would include wheels for the time span
Of mountains, spring-loaded but separate
From the tiny wheels of seasons, which
In turn would fly from a mechanism apart
From the minuscule wheel driving the human
Heart. That last, tiny detail, would keep
Time so precisely erratically that every day
And often every hour would see its slender
Gold sliver of a microscopic hand point
At a different frame of mind, the pointer
Skipping, stuttering and repeating to catch
With exactness the phases of my moods.
I woke in the small hours disgusted
With a world that would let me dream
Of ghosts, rose from bed with so many
Aches I could not see my way through
The day, found myself at noon on the road
Feeling almost contented with the hallucinatory
Near sameness of things, the wheel
In my hands, the sun on the dash, the road.
Now here I was passing through return again,
Daughter in the back seat posing riddles,
And the mouse-whisker fine line of the small
Gold hand pointed to contented again.
Surely, such precision could only prove
The intentional elegance of my designing.
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