The hourglass sits
At its perch,
On the windowsill,
As it always has;
Marking time,
As it passes,
Catching the reflection
Of the leaves,
Of the maple tree
In the garden;
From verdant green,
To resplendent yellow,
And thereafter,
Of the limbs, mellow,
In their nakedness.

The hourglass is mute,
Both as a spectator,
And as a keeper,
Of the passage of time;
As it glows,
In the warmth
Of the summer sun,
And turns frigid
When that orb retreats,
It fails not,
To reflect,
And to mark time,
Timelessly.

Image Credit: Photo by Bonnie Moreland on StockSnap