The clocks retreat; the evening draws its breath,
And peace descends where once the daylight strained.
My nails, once frail, now whisper life to death—
A small, absurd proof something’s been regained.
The car sailed through its trial, sound and sure,
Postponed fatigue replaced by morning’s grace.
The cycle left undone, the heart more pure—
A quiet triumph time cannot erase.
Sweet Maggie shines—seventeen years in bloom;
We laugh through Star Wars’ ancient rebel fight.
Those newer tales? I leave them to their gloom—
We’ll keep the ones that still ignite the night.
The logbook of my days now keeps its course,
Each line a tether drawn to what is real.
My phone now hums with steady, modern force,
Yet still I seek the hush that faith can heal.
The years weigh soft, yet whisper in the mind:
Have I outlived the work I’m meant to do?
But rest, for Providence is still not blind—
The crown of peace is forged in trust anew.
Christ reigns, Christ rules, through ebb and tide and track,
When clocks move on—and sometimes, gently back.
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