Broken Clavecin

for every wind?’s emotionless blast
brings shreds of feathers with their dance of loss
rotating leaves of faded rainbow-trees
and bitter tide of petals outcast
the eye undates the images it sees:
the clouds overgrown with melted moss
the shadows cleft and soaking in the sun
the palms of longing fastened to the mast:
this changing chain of shapes and whispers is
as tangible as time that blooms with gloss
of golden spirals delicately spun
beyond the brine of its congealing seas:
both take and choke whatever falls within
the circle of a trice that grows fast
and separates the future from the past
but those still merge: for it can only last
before the knotty hands of chance begin
to wriggle into heaven and to toss
another dawn until it is undone
and jingles like a broken clavecin