The old hand hurls the cracked globe widdershins, and fast
The spinning top turns back   wobbles on its axis
stand swaying
threatens to fall.
She catches it.  It’s not time yet but time is time
and goes its own way, she knows too much of time .
As old books say, there is a time for everything
but old books lie.
Books always lie.  The printed word made obsolete
long before the printer winds the sheet into its innards
Time had come and gone, with Truth.
There once was time to play at wording
now words too are elusive
A cliché: “Here today and gone tomorrow “
Her tomorrow’s disappeared with yesterday’s grocery list
all sorrow’s past
today she knows
All the spots on the globe markedwith her pins seem clear enough.
She rights the spindle, slows the spin
still moving a dark flag
She won’t let it stop there, nudges it faster
Perhaps a prayer might pull that one out
it must not, cannot be allowed to stop in that deep spot.
Will she still be tomorrow? next year? when memory’s gone?