Germinating Time

In the language of ticking clocks, it sows sprouts upon the glass.
Each minute is a seed that falls, gazing at the bark’s edge.
The dials whisper secrets of roots seeking underground light.
The hands kiss with the forest’s fingers, growing in spirals.
Time bends; the hours bloom leaves that turn backward.
Seconds become sap, rising to feed trees in reverse.
The hourglass becomes a memory-forest, breathing ’twixt trunks and glass.
The table fills with green shadows, and the room hears the shadow’s beat.
Every word from the clocks is a root yearning for the sky.
The calendar patterns the minute’s earth with green dew.
So the forest grows from time, reversing the season’s order.
And when the hour shatters, the present emerges as a sprout of light.