The Clock Forgot to Wind Itself

I remember the ending first—

the quiet click of a door

that hasn’t yet been opened.

Dust motes drift like unspoken promises

toward a sunbeam that won’t rise until tomorrow.

Somewhere in the middle,

a kettle whistles for a tea I haven’t brewed,

steam curling into shapes

I’ll recognize only years from now.

I breathe it in anyway.

Earlier—much later—

your laugh echoes down a hallway

we never walked together,

yet my shoes are already by the door,

muddy from the journey we haven’t taken.

A childhood thought interrupts:

the sky is too big to fit in one lifetime.

I believed it then,

and I believe it again now

as the future leans backward into my hands.

The moment I’m in—

or the moment that’s in me—

is a loose thread.

I tug it gently,

and the whole day unravels

into a tapestry I haven’t woven yet.

Still, I gather the strands.

I tie them into a knot of now,

a place where yesterday hums softly

and tomorrow waits its turn

but doesn’t mind being late.