The Land of Her

There is very little time

to be young

when what's left

in the hourglass

is just dust

shaken up and

turned on end

restraining

though very few grains

remain to be keen listening

and quick reading

or by choice

slow:

moving

there is too much

shifting beneath.

I was told by our mother

years ago

in the land of her

that people were

living for something ethereal

thinner

than butter on bread or so

many dancing angels on

pins and needles above

the fireplace

flu season when my head

was equal to the huge

red stick

of a far gone

candle

my eyes were right on

a circus of

lions, monkeys, elephants,

birds, and what-nots

swirling in parade behind

a sea-blue dot

which was maybe

me (or the spell

that had me)

shaking and tucked in

the orange-green

flowered couch and I

thought it meant death

with the animals

leading me, if only

so pretty

but

time has

little

left for the taking

as glass loses

sand escapes

heaven-ward

hauled

from six feet

I was told

I was a pall bearer

I carried the bier

and in it was my family

above all

I felt part of that

family mechanically lower

into the ground

without sound except

falling earth from above

dumping down to fill

the void

as skies turn to dust

the little life that is left

sifts the air.