The Clockmaker's Garden

In a forgotten corner of the world,

Where time itself is softly curled,

There grows a most peculiar grove,

Where clockmaker's finest treasures rove.

The trees do not bear fruit of stone,

But clocks of brass and polished bone.

Where glowing orbs of moonlit pearl,

Mark the minutes for the world.

The grandfather clocks, so tall and grand,

Grow heavy on the fertile land.

The pocket watches, small and deep,

Are secrets that the branches keep.

The clockmaker walks with gentle hand,

Across his most unusual land.

He polishes the faces bright,

And winds the stems with all his might.

He knows each tick and every tock,

That stems from every flower and clock.

He listens for the chimes that tell,

The stories that they know so well.

This tree was grown from patience, slow,

That one from haste, as you may know.

A cherry watch, so sweet and brief,

Was born from moments filled with grief.

But sometimes, clocks will go astray,

And lose their sense of night and day.

They'll chime for hours, neverending,

Or stop their tick, their time suspending.

The clockmaker knows just what to do,

He'll sit and have a word or two.

He mends the gears with morning dew,

And makes the broken pieces new.

For time is not a thing to force,

It must be kept on its true course.

And in this garden, wild and free,

Time grows as it was meant to be.

So if your own time feels all wrong,

Your hours short, your minutes long,

Remember that it needs a friend,

To help it heal, to help it mend.

And in the clockmaker's garden, you

Might find the time that's fresh and new.

For every end is a begin,

As long as there's a clock within.