The Hour Glass

The hour begins with a thin fall of sand,
a quiet descent through the narrow divide.
I turn the glass slowly inside of my hand,
and wonder how much of a life fits inside.

Sixty small minutes — a measurable span,
yet oceans of motion unfold in that frame.
A million decisions are made by some man
whose name I will never remember or name.

A train claws forward through fog off the rail,
iron screaming loud through what the night brings.
A trucker fights sleep on a long desert trail,
while somewhere a young guard studies the wings.

A surgeon bends close to the circle of light,
the clock on the wall barely moves anymore.
Across town a gambler keeps chasing the night,
still sure that the cards will balance the score.

A siren cuts hard through a narrow brick street,
blue lights painting windows in fractured red glare.
A thief bolts the moment two strangers both meet,
with someone’s last paycheck still clenched in his care.

A newborn arrives with a furious cry,
lungs filling the room with a stubborn demand.
Somewhere a quiet old woman will die
with only a photograph held in her hand.

A soldier lies still in a trench carved of clay,
the ground shaking faint with artillery’s breath.
The order is given and silence gives way,
and somewhere a mother will learn of his death.

A fisherman studies the shape of the tide,
weather written plainly in wrinkles and foam.
A pilot above him adjusts course mid-stride,
watching the coastline dissolve into chrome.

A courtroom grows silent while papers are read,
the future of someone decided in ink.
A few blocks away a teen lies on a bed
just staring above, too tired to think.

A banker counts numbers that never feel real,
while markets decide who will rise and who’ll fall.
A robber breaks glass with the butt of cold steel,
and somewhere a frightened voice calls through the hall.

A teacher erases the board with her sleeve,
chalk dust suspended like slow winter snow.
A thief studies cameras before he will leave,
measuring shadows where movement won’t show.

A couple exchange their first nervous hello,
two strangers pretending the moment is small.
Another two people already both know
that silence has grown like a crack in a wall.

In markets the shouting of prices will rise,
coins moving faster than hands can record.
Meanwhile a man with a telescope eyes
a distant new object no chart can afford.

A storm gathers weight on a restless dark sea,
old sailors would watch how the sky slowly bled.
A forest will lose an old hundred-year tree,
when wind comes to collect on a long-standing debt.

A thunderstorm climbs like a wall to the sky,
lightning erupts through the belly of night.
From orbit the clouds pulse and shimmer on high,
a living blue world stitched with violent light.

And here in this room with the hour nearly spent,
I feel every grain like a tap on the bone.
Not one of them caring where any of us went,
not one of them asking what we have known.

I think of the turns that my own life has made,
the roads that dissolved while I stood at their start.
Some paths I considered, some paths I betrayed,
by anger that moved quicker than my own heart.

The glass never rushes, the glass never waits,
it simply obeys what the minutes demand.
An hour can alter the course of our fates
or pass like a coin slipping out of a hand.

And when the last grain finds the bottom below,
another full hour prepares to begin.
A quiet reminder that most of what we know
is only the time we are living within.

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