Do you still remember the Ingmar Bergmann movie, Dot,
With scores of strange stopped clocks?
Do some birds late for the long migration — maybe slept in —
rush to join their flock?
I ‘ll turn off the metronome and ease into some Chopin,
borrow time — not a lot.
On sun-drenched winter days, inner realms of green peek open
tender tendrils will pop.
I imagine Schubert’s winter-time young hero wears no watch —
his lovelorn heart tick tocks.
Bristlecone trees regenerate over millennia:
Build bridges through multi-dimensional space, go baroque
with Sebastian Bach.
Famous Alice fell into a parallel universe
run by carded crackpots.
Take a trip in reverse, spin through spacetime’s wormholes
reenter a hot spot.
My darling has cinematic memories of his past:
of young Sue in snapshots.