Her clock thoughts are ticking

The seconds and minutes away:

         (Her hands freewind

         Across her face;

         Beat time with her heart–

         Precise with grace.)

All the works and deeds of her day.

Her mindwheels are turning

Round and round, tirelessly.

         Her thoughts millchurn

         They do not cease.

         They gristgrind her fears

         To cautious peace:

So fine, and ever so finally.

Summer 1984