The Pocket Watch

The golden rim restrains encircled Roman numerals
Whose reach forms an arc parallel to yon Polaris realm
While beneath both praetors, veiled by a cosmos of well-known codes
The hidden ruby, garnet, or other ensconced jewel keeps watch

Yet how unknown — that gem and whirling weight around her —
Each tick akin to desert grain smoothing the carefully known neck
Of former times which like this watch was turned by hand
To set off motions at the ready, stored up in her sands

Sands bearing witness to the sun who withered all
Leaving shadow only, yet sufficient shade she was to show
The artisan the path on his dial detecting what the First Voice crafted
When He who formed the shadow, sand, and gem spoke Fiat lux
Before this circled world began

© Kurt Mähler

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