Holding the Pocket Watch






Defying its heaviness,
the circle face defaults to a water lily
in her withering hand,
a sudden reminder of her father’s pond
trickles forward from childhood.

Through a case of metal and rust,
she’s floating back
to the days when dragonflies danced
on lustrous leaves
and white flowers opened
their waxy mouths to the sky,
every July.

Barbara Lawton

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