Constellatory (continued)
VI. Clock
On the shelf, the clock forgets to tick.
It holds time like warm water in cupped hands—
not passing, just pooling. We let it.
There’s no rush here, only moments that want to stay a little longer.
VII. Berm
Out the back, the berm we built to keep the stormwater out
now collects blue wrens and late jasmine.
You touch its edge with your boot—
as if testing whether distance can soften enough to be familiar.
VIII. Barnacles
At the sink, the shells from last week's beach walk still rim the ceramic dish.
Three barnacles, cracked and saltworn. You called them survivors.
I call them proof: that even the immobile cling with purpose.
IX. Pendulum
In the shed, the rusted pendulum swings— not from clockwork,
but from a makeshift arc of wind and wire.
It moves only when the back door opens.
But when it does, it cuts the air cleanly—
like a sentence that finally means what it’s trying to say.