An Hour As A Drupe (Poem)

The sky has not yet lightened.

I grasp an hour before it passes,

Lay it down on the kitchen table,

And slice into the middle of its hurried time.

Inside I find a kernel,

A hardened instant that I place in my pocket.

Later in the rushing day, I hold it within my palm.

Breathing in the coolness of that secret pause

Breathing out the heated scurry of demand.

Thus reminded to be grateful, I open my hand.

The faint strike of a bowl resounds.