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Grief’s clocks warp, melt,

Bend, Dali-esque,

Stretching, shrinking,

Fast slow,

Hurry crawl,

Rush drag,

Uncertain and disorienting,

Blurring, greying calendar lines.

Is it already—

Is it only—

The ungrieved world around

Creeps in its steady pace

From day to day.

I am flotsam, adrift,

Sometimes racing along white water,

Then sticking fast, heart

Lodged against a rock

Of yearning or

Tree root of memory,

Waiting for time to resume

Its ordered rhythm.

Grief’s clocks tick imperfectly,

Chime unpredictably,

Time-hopping between memory and reality,

Begging gentle care and patience

Until the Master Watchmaker

Resets and restores

Clocks and time itself

In everlasting Day.

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