Movement*

The innards of a clock and of a watch

were a provocation when I was a child,

imprisoned by rain and looking for something to do

as the day beyond the window turned to night.

Taking it apart, wanting to know how it works -

the mystery became a mess of cogs and springs

never reassembled or understood.

The hair-spring was the finest secret of all,

driving the hours, the days, the months, the years,

through the visitations of weather and of love.