I mourn the round clock
the poetic face of time
gazing into now
hands whirling round hours
much like the planets orbit
our cradle of light
pulsing in us – too
as heart hub where the Muse dwells
minding her own pace
you are the turning
– she hints – laugh and weep with me
create more beauty
from her calm domain
she may join freak storms as rain
and make deserts bloom
poets and children
glimpse how she weaves dream fabrics
to wrap up each now
Course of Mirrors 