Sun Dials

Shadows of seconds spent
measured by the finger pointing hour glass keepers,
who calculated their grains worth
by the size of their piles in papers
scribbling the day’s diary.

Every tale they write in their minds is a gem
boasting the medallions of victory minutes,
oh the ire they spread  over what they view
as squandered ticks upon their stop watch gauge,
ready to lecture at a heartbeat
about the pauses in racing
when one gazes at the sunlight
and reads its light as a dial of discovery
in rays so profound.

Wisdom for the masters of efficiency statistics
see thoughts as refuse,
but sweat as profit.

What truly is the gold of an exhale
or the silver in an inhale?
It isn’t the definition of time’s incompetence
created by those with no ability to appreciate
the gain from merely getting in touch
with life’s deeper meaning
through vacant transfixed stares
at the ageless treasures only the heart can enjoy?

On the grandfather clock in the mind
do we tell our own zone of life,
where the only one
we have to explain the chronicle of its hands
is to ourselves.