Now

"It's not so bad,"  he says, life pouring out of his eyes with glowing embers falling down to my ankle.

I'm not so sure, I think, as the tick tocking of the terrible clock, with each click, pulsates my temple.

The universe has boiled down.  There was a time when the pot overflowed with hot summer leaves and cold water from the garden hose.

I'm down to the bottom of the pot now - drying tree twigs lying lifeless against the cast iron.