Clockwork

Always there is time for tea And tenderness A visit from his faraway eyes Nothing implied Little revealed Something resides In the safety of his simplicity No heavy handed swat of judgment No soft sweep of truth under a carpet No flapping laundry on a line No take it back talk Always hours for hello and goodbye Penciled in appointments of assurance Small measures of remembering friendship takes two Two teacups full And absolutely without true need I planted seeds under a Sunday sky Hands dirtied by the useful chore And thought out loud, No more, no more... The clouds to offend my days