Poetry by Jael
Quiet at Four
by jael bietsch

It's winter in Illinois and Hardees is quiet at four.
The clock is wound tight in the wrong direction,
and the wind is blowing hard at the door.

She clutches her blanket, a toddler of four,
and I press my face to her cheek in affection.
The clock revolves in rapid rotation.

Time's unsprung in some hurried progression.
Small swinging feet are brushing the floor,
and the wind is rushing at the door.

A ribbon-tied braid hangs over her shoulder;
her head is bent in dreamy attention.
A lifetime unwinds in small generations.

Blue eyes flash clear some secret distraction,
her fingers work some small-toy chore.
The wind is storming the door.

Pendulum mittens swing in erattic childhood rhythm.
It's winter in Illinois and she's quiet at four.
The clock is wound in deceptive directions,
And the wind is hard blowing the door.

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    © 1995 Jael Bietsch

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    March 8, 2000