Rosy-hued curls, arranged in whirls,
remind me of a clock, stopped.
The minute hand is stuck at twelve.
The hour hand spins too fast to see.
Time has come and gone,
fled when I wasn’t looking.
Now Columbine blooms while
the red queen dances in between.
I don’t see Alice at all.
The cheshire cat is grinning
even as my head is spinning
like the hour hand unseen.
Time is measured by kids’ height,
and mine are grown like Alice,
ten feet tall added one and all.
Do I add them head to head or
foot to foot? Or do I let them grow
without any measurement at all?
If time were in these fleeting blooms,
it would always come round again,
we just can’t be sure exactly when.
Copyright 2016 Brenda Davis Harsham
Note: I’ve been ill and reading too much poetry. When I woke this morning, the whole world was spinning. My words are spinning, too, it seems. Here’s a song that makes me enjoy the sensation, even as time seems to spin backwards: