On Creation

I am the cogs of a watch,
Spilled on the floor:
An introduction of hardwood to metal,
The tiny mechanism of falling,
The gravity of incomplete,
Smashes the watch and time
Stops.

Here I am:
I am the dust in the seems of a trenchcoat,
During the high noon of summer.
Winter will come in turn,
But the conception of cold burns
In mother's womb's
And there will be birth.

Creation is here,
The eloquent prose of patience,
As fragile as a ticking pocket watch.

As the dust is unshook it dances with flecks of snow,
I am married with glee,
To the idea of newborn
Art.