A Poem for a Thursday #180

I featured Barabar Crooker a few months ago but here is another of her poems. The problem with finding a new poet that I like is that then I have a whole slew of poems by that writer that I want to share. Today I am indulging myself by featuring her again.

In the Middle

of a life that's as complicated as everyone else's,
struggling for balance, juggling time.
The mantle clock that was my grandfather's 
has stopped at 9:20; we haven't had time
to get it repaired. The brass pendulum is still,
the chimes don't ring. One day you look out the window,
green summer, the next, and the leaves have already fallen,
and a grey sky lowers the horizon. Our children almost grown,
our parents gone, it happened so fast. Each day, we must learn 
again how to love, between morning's quick coffee
and evening's slow return. Steam from a pot of soup rises,
mixing with the yeasty smell of baking bread. Our bodies
twine, and the big black dog pushes his great head between;
its tail is a metronome, 3/4 time. We'll never get there,
Time is always ahead of us, running down the beach, urging 
us on faster, faster, but sometimes we take off our watches,
sometimes we lie in the hammock, caught between the mesh
of rope and the net of stars, suspended, tangled up
in love, running out of time.

In the Middle
Barbara Crooker