Hands Of Time

Poem By Pat Bordner

Leisurely, I enter dad's repair room.
Placing me in the hands of time.
Antique clocks of many styles.
Springs, gears, and parts about. Clocks bold that go bong, bong.
Softer pieces that ping, ping.
Westminster chimes play a tune.
One that dares to call me cuckoo. Faces with Arabic or Roman numerals.
Bordered by designs or flowers.
Pendulums swinging to and fro.
Ticking, clicking, and tapping. Hands moving slowly measuring,
the minutes and hours.
Guiding my pace, life's moments.
Directed by the hands of time.

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