The Watch

-Dedicated to Uncle Frank, the watchmaker, with love. –Died January 6, 1990

The seconds tick by slowly.
The minutes seem like years.
But, the hours go so quickly,
Wearing on the gears.

The face is very simple.
The hands, they never cease.
The watch serves its purpose,
Each and every piece.

The band, though warn and rough,
Keeps the heart in its place.
And though still working in the dark,
It rests at an even pace.

But, when the hands stop moving,
And the ticking’s no longer heard,
Was its existence useful
Or did it seem absurd?

The watch was truly needed
And will be missed by its mate,
And will always be remembered
At the passing of each date.

Every watch serves a purpose
From setting sun to sun.
This watch worked perfection
Until its job was done.

For such a useful object,
It seems such a crime,
That such a precious piece
Has to run out of time.