poem #9

An hour-glass stands up nice and straight
On a flat, polished end,
While bells suspend like carrion
On rods that never bend.  

Grains of sand in a transparent bulb,
Mustered in a smooth cone,  
Slip through a graceful crystal neck
To toll in silky tones.  

But as bells swing and clang, they gulp
From a meridian,  
One sideways to the zenith zone,
And fill themselves again.    

A bell will always know the time,
But still politely wait
For eager hands to yank their cord,
Even when slightly late.  

But a depleted hour-glass sits
Until impatient hands
Can flip it over on its crown
And fill its heads with sand.