Hope Orchestrated
On my long, curved, clay-colored, couch, I watch a golden shadow with blotches of darkness go over and across where my legs would be if I was sitting there in the shade from the sun. Like a mesmerizing strobe light it insists I watch. I hear the steady tap sound of the pendulum return to its place of origin, over and over. The shadow mimics the clock’s rhythm with a dance on my couch. I turn and stare up at the clock mechanism four feet above the floor, encased in a deep red, wood frame with windows up and down on all sides. “Now I’m here, now I’m there.” If I listen hard enough I can hear the violins rise to accompany. Sweet, soft and entranced. It stays in rhythm but in butterfly-wing-chants of sound. The score of time. Constant motion. As the shadows slowly fade on my couch, so does each minute of time. Grandfather Clock continues its movement of song. I turn now toward my apartment window. The sun no longer blinds me. I notice my maroon shamrock (in the pot by the window) has drift