A Measure of Gravity

A brass hourglass on the rosewood side table was trickling pale, glistening sand with entirely too much nervous energy this morning. Such a frantic rush to mark the hours seemed terribly uncivilized. Reaching toward an antique silver stamp box resting open nearby, I selected a single dried, star-shaped black clove. With steady deliberation, I tilted the heavy glass vessel just enough to wedge the dark, spiked clove firmly beneath its curved brass foot. The glass settled into a permanent, graceful tilt, causing the cascade of sand to halt against the neck in complete, obedient arrest. Time, I find, is vastly improved when stripped of its impatience.