Where do the days go when they leave us?  The hours spill from the crack 
in the clock, tumble into a pile which trips me up.  Months fall page by page 
from the calendar, causing a breeze that chills.  Whose dark hand, I 
wondered on a gray afternoon in November, stole the sun this time?  I keep 
my eyes on the magician who picks my pocket to fill his up-ended top hat, 
then, after a wave of his wand, commands: Look!  Slowly his hand opens, 
and there, in the palm, a wild fire of years flares. 

Previously published:  key satch(el) 1:4 (October 1997): 16,  Robert Miltner