In the garden she digs furrows
with her broken clock hands,
plants time in fallow fields.
On hands and knees,
the moist crumbling soil
spills through determined fingers.
With watchful gaze
they wind,
they spin.
She repackages her purpose into
tiny tin boxes,
folds the brittle paper of years ticking by,
molds origami shapes:
the thousand cranes,
one croaking frog,
and stuffs them there.
NaPo 4/8