The sun is rising farther to the south
inching each day to the true east
to the equinox.
Gnomon,
the one who knows,
his shadow casts the lengthening light across
the figured stylus
away from numbers and chimes
but into nature’s time.

Time is not linear
but round,
a spiraling cycle of sun and moon.
Persephone’s choice
of resurrection and renewal,
rising from the withered vine
to abundant grape and glory
only to wither again.
Modern time is only a construct of conceit-
man controlling his minutes and hours
each tied to his wrist
or tucked into his vest pocket
to be worshiped
or rebuffed
or excoriated
until his final breath.
But the old oaks stand,
unhurried by the numbers and chimes,
moved only by the moon’s tides
and the sun’s chariot travels
from light into light into light.

(revision)