Stopped

The wind has finally let go of the house,

and the sudden quiet is a heavy thing.

I noticed the rhythm was missing from the air,

the steady pulse I’ve lived with for years.

I went to the kitchen to wind the clock,

but the key is jammed tight against the spring.

It won’t turn an inch, holding its breath,

trapped by the weight of its own history.

The red second hand is frozen in place,

caught right between the six and the seven.

It looks like a man standing on a ledge,

unable to jump and unable to turn back.