ISRAEL

massr@israsrv.net.il

Time 

My father was a watchmaker, made sure I had a watch 
that worked.  I learned that watches marked real or 
artificial horizons, time was mapped, testified to living.
Time pulled reality apart and reassembled it into 
meaningful patterns, I learned.  I watched my father repair  
wandering hands, oil mainsprings.  Time would start again 

when he'd replace parts,  then twist the face back on, re-set.  
The tick-tick would resound as loud as Big Ben.  
My father had started time once again, setting up space 
for new events.  The hands would begin to sweep
ready to testify.   Minutes, I learned, were negotiations, 
settled and re-settled in a reasonable sense
into delicate transactions.  

Now I know that time is swollen and scattered
holds sun, yet can be soaked with sharp rain.   
Often it smolders - separating, stroke by stroke, 
the language of the past. 
It transports the day, traces effort, marks energy
rattling minutes like shells at the beach.

The sound of honesty

My house sounds honest this morning, from corner to corner
in a way I don't remember.  I put on my bra so I can concentrate
on what's happening, pull my senses into stricter form.  Don't want
to be sloppy.  

The house is packed with quiet.  It purrs round me.  I feel thrust into it.  
The place is crowded with pleasant feelings that could easily turn 
into thought. The feelings are muscled now, explode - get stern, but 
leave no irritation.  

Often the sense of things gets obliterated, but today I feel as though 
nothing can touch me and yet I know that anything can.  I watch the 
horizon move in, follow the line that spins comfort round me.  
It adds patience, helps me listen.  I hear questions moving in my chest.  

I have all of this to myself.  I lift the mood, prop and align it to get 
to the center.   I want to feed it, add logs as if I'm building a fire 
to warm winter which is months away.  There are no sounds, only a fan 
quieter than grinding coffee, but constant.   

The grocery list on my table tells me that lunch must be prepared, dinner 
served but I feel like a fisherman today - re-casting, watching the arc lurch.  
I wonder what satisfies a man waiting for fish:  the quantity?  the weather?  
It's a soft day here.  I'm waiting for it to cool - but that won't be till evening.  

Surviving summer is like any other recovery, like being in love:  
what's to come has never been before. These days wear thin, lose 
the strokes of sun.  I wonder if wisdom will come in damp autumn mornings 
replacing the passion of summer.  

© All Copyright, 2000, Rochelle Mass.
All Rights Reserved. Printed By Permission.