as the hands ever unseen,
push forward,
the tines of time,
i lie with eyes open,
but it must be said,
with a desperate desire
that they be closed.

i listen to the wind rail,
against it's perpetual,
homeless state.
fury has been it's nature,
this past long night
and has doubled
the occupancy of this old
king bed,
sprawled beside me now safely asleep,
is a tangle of blucat and small, but growing to fast, child
both resting, hard up against the lee- side of the man mountain.
all creating a purring, snuffling, snoring thing,
that has an equal measure
of comfort and annoyance, circulating within my brain.

outside the house,
something has come adrift, but not enough, to blow away and it bangs in an awkard thunking rhythm agin the side of the house.

in the bed it is warm
and slightly sweaty.
outside of the bed,
it is crisp and overcool.
outside the window,
the sky is lightening,
to a grey that portends...
a long day

i make my choice
and leave the warmth in search of, the first of,
far too many coffee's

and the unseen hands,
still move,
the tines of the
old grandfather clock.
ever onward, everforward.