mechanical memento mori

A watch poem

Waking up I wind my watch,
a mechanical memento mori.

Having neglected it, 
      it lies dormant and dead, 
      its face in the ground.
Caressing the crown, 
      I breathe life into its gears
as the second hand springs into a spin.

My watch, neither accurate nor precise, 
     has an intuitive clock —
inside a jeweled escape 
     from common quartz.
Demanding care and attention, 
     this finicky piece
may move as long as I do, 
often slow, 
     then painfully fast to catch the time.

And when I finally stop to die, 
     my watch will wave but for a day
to say goodbye.

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