the hourglass

father time sipped his tea
bitter and black, just oversteeped
his tired preference
long azure robes gently sweeping the floor
and drooping in parallel to bags under eyes
he put down the warm ceramic mug
coughed through his lungs, elder and brittle
before another sip and a glance toward death
i think it’s time, he stated, thinking of another
the unliving farmhand with its flax linen robe
thick and wavy like black lichen
but properly hemmed, far from fraying
carefully nodded in agreement
feeling the familiar call of entropy
the father rose in wonder of fate
and turned toward an array of time kept
focusing mournfully on the hourglass
its silver frame wrapped around quartz bulbs
powdered marble flowing through the neck
in white grains, humane and merciful
as death left the cabin to a field of frost
sickle in hand for a quiet passage