the hands of the clock

move forward,

as do I—on autopilot;

24 hours in a day

is not enough

    to work

    to sleep

    to eat

    to live;

I want to grab

the minute hand,

caress it in my palm,

use it to stir a cup of tea,

use it to mark the pages

of a book,

hold it against my cheek

as I nap under a blanket;

I want to have a whole pile

of minutes,

enough to submerge

beneath in a tubful of bubbles,

enough to plant tulips deep in soil;

but I do what I can,

snatching song lyrics

from the passing breeze,

catching snowflakes on my tongue,

drawing hearts on frosted windowpanes.