Time limps here,
dragging its fractured ankles
across the cracked sundial.

The clocks bloom in silence,
their hands forever pointing
to moments no one remembers.

Rust has kissed every numeral,
each gear a forgotten truth
ticking without a destination.

In this garden,
even the wind hesitates,
uncertain if it's early or too late.

An hourglass lies overturned,
spilling sand into roots,
feeding flowers that never wilt,
only hesitate.

A cuckoo calls from a nest
inside a hollowed-out wristwatch,
its song offbeat-
a lullaby for the restless.

I walk among them,
a gardener of delay,
trimming vines that curl
around lost anniversaries
and unnamed regrets.

Here,the past is not behind-
it curls inward,
presses its weight into petals
that refuse to close.

No bells mark noon.
No shadow aligns.
Only the hush of ticking things
that forgot why they began.