Ours for Hours
By S. L. Lipson
The top of my hourglass,
filled with the promise of
densely packed, precious family moments
only two weeks ago,
has emptied now,
like my nest.
Sparkling grains streamed too quickly
through the narrow passage called “winter break,”
and with a sad whoosh,
settle into the bulbous base
as memories,
while my kids resettle into their
homes away from Home.
And I wait for the next rotation
of our glass.
