Brings the thought that: Brings the thought that riding about in circles hopeful it is not aimlessly, a thought out life and an Eternity to reckon with indeed grows each spin that is spun around the Sun increases the privilege, vocation and exultation.
A glamorization that we: A glamorization that we lapped up as young art students, the deromanticized versions of its history is there for the seeking. TFS.
There is that low key: There is that low key consolation that each time we wake up the world continues "on spinning and spinning around." Hope this has been set to music since.
Feeling this! It must have: Feeling this! It must have felt like an enormous weight being lifted as you wrote this. Sometimes we need such catharsis and it helps others who can relate feel less alone.
And it sounds like you’re much better off with the "pile" out of the way.
Love and Light and every happiness to you, my gifted friend.
Revisiting this, I am: Revisiting this, I am reminded of the many thoughts I could not express to my father. Nothing of mine was ever good enough for him.
I love this poem..: I love this poem. The subject of time has always fascinated me. Who invented the human concept of time? Who decided what time it was? Did someone just say 'It's now a quarter to eleven' and everything else folllowed from there? I'd love to get the answers to these questions, but who has the time?
Like all of your poems in: Like all of your poems in this form, the brevity does not, in any way, detract from the immense power of your words and phrases.
Old time pieces and a fellow: Old time pieces and a fellow Poet's poem came together within your soul to launch this beautiful and significant poem. To me, that proves you are an authentic Poet. My favorite Poet, Wallace Stevens, found inspiration in all sorts of items (comparable to the old time pieces you mentioned, or overheard conversations) that then, being processed within his soul, became wonderful poems, with the most whimsical titles. His Collected Poems can be read just for the beauty of the titles alone. (Two of my favorites: "Mountain Covered With Cats," and "No Possum, No Sop, No Taters").
I also like the way the poem begins, immediately and forthrightly asserting that the hearts are the tiny gears that move the hands of time, and move us through it flow. Just like the power in tiny, invisible atoms which, when released through fusion, causes a star to release light and warmth---the rays of which can travel millions of light years to be received in our souls through our eyes.
This poem is both profound and beautiful, and only a real Poet can achieve that combination.