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Click hereThe day the watchmaker's hands
twitched
and the first of many springs
danced madly across elbow creased rose wood
to play hide and seek behind a virginal carton
of brass cogs,
he put down his loupe and tweezers,
put on his hat and duffel,
and walked six miles and back
to the hardware store.
He leaned the shovel,
pristine in the corner
behind the umbrella stand.
It did not make a fuss
did not speak to anyone,
and the watchmaker
sat down with tweezers and twitches,
a firmer grip and elbows heavy.
And did what he did what he did.
The day the watchmaker's hands
twiched
and the last spring
sprung out of hand
and into history,
the shovel spoke and clattered,
louder than sound, stronger than motion.
The watchmaker
put down his loupe and tweezers,
put on his hat and duffel
and walked six feet and out
to bury a man
hunched over creased
rose wood.
The day the gardener's hands
twitched
he laughed and let them tremble.
Petals are more forgiving than cogs,
and there's enough beauty in fractals
to fill anyone's heart.
I read this several times, which I hope you take as a compliment. I keyed on the word fractal, and I thought it pertained to the precisely shaped components of the watch, on the one hand, and the shapes in nature suggesting not only beauty, but perhaps a far greater precision and design.
Of course, we all have a tendency to read our own biases into a poem, and I happen to be one who is in awe of both the beauty and the wonderful mysterious design of the universe.
Shouldn't it be rosewood, not 'rose wood'?
Typo with 'twitched'.
Easily a five.
You have always had a way with sounds in your poetry, the mechanical repetition in the early stanzas that mimic the motion of the watch and the twitch of the hands. I would have liked to see more of a motion to organic sounds and rhythms as he moves into the world of forgiving flowers, something soft, flowing? Maybe that is just the romantic in me :) Well done, so good to read you again
such a quiet man. the acceptance here is beautiful. i see no mystery, just a man who accepts he's no longer able to make the world of minutiae obey his will and so, instead, finds joy in tinkering in his plot of land, finding beauty in the non-mechanical ...