Maya

God opened the morning
on tiptoe,
pinning laundry to an aluminum web,
spinning the wind into strings of breeze,
as a hanging apron
with a boutonniere rose,
awaits the shift change.

There are special clocks for this,
when a tight wound spring breaks free,
the lost moments gathered back
by a second chance hand,
time treasured by the grand
child's crayon circle
come full.

What can be read,
into a situation,
had to be there in blue, or purple,
before black and white
patterned the dance partner's feet across
a tiled floor.

When the poet stops selecting commas,
to indicate a pause for breath,
then the last line becomes
unending;
each of us,
taking a turn.