A Morning, Not Where I Left It

Time change, it's an hour later
Sprung forward, but time enough yet for listening to birds
while walking up to the front door
(saw a red-winged blackbird on the roadside)
the boys are sleeping, the clock is ticking
try not to think about the blurred vision and
other things slipping, waning, while looking through
the window from kitchen to backyard  remembering
when the birds meant so much
harbingers of magic
thinking of missed cues, moments - sacred to one but not the other,
memories, keepsakes, special one-of-a-kind items or occasions,
treasures carefully kept, tumbled by winds when your back is turned,
stolen by encroaching tides, in half-sleep
left jammed between wall and bus seat
later found by an ignoramus
too coarse to discern its meaning
lost, mistaken for jetsam
a spectrum of tragedies like these
always rolling