All of the children had arrived the previous morning
Each on time according to their individual watches
For once, this final time, everything left behind
She is sitting by the window now watching the sun slide down
It was just last week that I had driven to work as usual
Thankfully, none of that matters now out here in the desert
The long twilight preparing to resign to the unknown
I can tell she is beginning to feel it and nothing else
This House has been here for as long as I can remember
All the children would come here when school was finally over
A yearly pilgrimage of packed up cars, coolers, and baskets
I’m sure she remembered this too when she first arrived
This house has always had an unusual feeling about it
Almost home, but not quite, piano notes that felt significant
Playing backwards down the scale and continually starting again
I’m wondering if the feeling still interrupts her enjoyment here
The walls are covered in clocks of all shapes and style
I’ve been told my grandfather collected these pieces as a hobby
It seemed no two were ever on the same ticking beat
I’m wondering if she still hears the time poking at her
When all thirteen of us complete with families had arrived
We participated in the yearly exercises of greetings and lunches
This year has been different in only minor ways before tonight
She seems to have finally found that place, a little earlier than most
As the hours had passed, movement began to slow to a crawl
Thirteen clocks that were precariously in need of a simple turn
I felt like an arrow lodged quite well into the wooden floor
Her face seems to show no signs of worry or compassion
Earlier today I had grown somewhat concerned about her condition
And the twilight that would sweep her deep into the Samadhi
But as we talked I realized there is little I can do despite it
The fires don’t seem to be causing her any trouble now
It’s now nearly nine o’clock and the mixture of night and day
Has become less and less diluted with the waking hours
As expected, the House has grown increasingly quiet
She hasn’t shifted in what seems like many regular hours
From the far reaches of the desert the cold wind moves
It raises the hair upon my skin as it passes by untouched
I’ll probably remember it as a cold sea bath washing clean
All the baggage and sadness collected like clocks on a wall
It feels like a moment of complete silence without thought
When cognition is so foreign it is unrecognizable
The desert air feels unseasonably cool
Have I become smoke over the sand?
More like swimming than flying I’d say
Exhaled by the desert as bubbles
Pulled by strings back into the sky
My imagination tumbles inside my head
It is the only explanation I can offer
I feel spread thin across the sky