A neglected god, autonomy chimes like a grandfather clock,
needing constant attention and, at least, another timepiece
by which to set it-
while on that cold, still morning, just down the stairs and accompanied
by the smell of black coffee and
a warmed woolen rug kicked over the heat vent,
a deep thrum of six strokes resonates deep behind
my sternum, a reassuring pat of the hand.
Another and often marauding, silvery dragon,
wandering uphill and yet afoot,
seems at this hour to be half-asleep and forgotten
while we, at breakfast,
talk of what we hope to know,
where we want to become, and why this is all quite good;
but our deeper thoughts, just beyond?
Upon the snows of tomorrow
and the expectant hopes of November and December,
even with plain expressions of current tragedy
and the blurred face of an unsure cold new year ahead.
Again, the clock strikes the half hour away in the living room.
This occasion will soon be past;
work or school,
the solving and procrastinating of problems
manufactured to take the place of sovereignty and the morning
and to steal the chime of that clock,
but never forget the pat of that hand
or that shimmering dragon as he awakens and finally takes wing,
breathing a terrible fire