You are the clock above the mantlepiece.
You are the ticking of the hand as it draws forth
my life upon threads of silver and green
grass in the yard, beneath the leaves of the high tree.

You are the Angel on the top of the Christmas tree.
The rain of tinsel and the dew of holly on the branches
as they're weighed down by Christmas eve rains
and propped up by the bellies of family around it.

You are the color of the grass in that time
between winter and spring
when nature doesn't seem to want to
get out of bed for the summer days.

You are the touch of velvety leather in an armchair
sat in front of an open window in winter
that lets in the cold air from the snowy sideyard
and turns my breath to fog and to ice.

You are the Clock above the mantlepiece.
You are the slow drawing arm as it creeps
ever forward, never quickly, towards the earth, and back
in a never ceasing draw toward eternity.