My Sundial







“A freckle past a hair.” My grandma would say when I asked.

Perhaps it didn’t matter.  Or maybe it was she taking pride,

in our sun-spotted complexions visibly tied.


We count our minutes by sixty.

Our days as though they matter.

Limited and precious  we perceive,

to accomplish this or that—

feeding desires which will,

along with us expire.


These arbitrary delineations,

“evil” as they weigh…

taking us a way…

from the actuality,

that “a day is a thousand years.”


“Temporal” is what drives us,

when it is the spiritual that should guide us.

A different sun, another moon;

none, some or even many.


Admit you do not know,

and look to He who does.

Not a man, not a theory,

the answer but one.





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