the century hourglass

The crystal doorknob and

the little pink cottage with purple trim

and a sealed letter

stamped Return to Sender,

a false rendering of tenderness,

and the silhouette of two palm trees

in the evening’s lilac balm.

They sway towards and away

from one another,

an eternal almost-embrace.

The profiles of palm.

They never kiss.

Give or take ten calendar years and

the palm trees of Southern California

will bend and wilt,

the curving spineless rotting weeds,

the dime-store transplants—

unassuming invaders always fall

before Father Time,

his century hourglass.

The last fall of sand,

the last tear cried.

Still they stand in the aching sun,

drier than a whistle.

The wry song of the bird.

The humility in hope.