Tortured, elliptical wheel of time,
bucking along in its rut, a torqued, heavy oval
plunging in lurching cadences,
leaps or drags in its passage,
picks up debris, lives, memories,
flings fragments into shadows.
A child feels the groaning
of weighted hours or days.
A mother clings to slow rotation,
desperation her confidante,
memories halved and truant.
An elder, wise to the rut,
steps aside to catch
scattered debris, snare a shard
for lonesome moments.