Oh, how the clocks would fight.
When you sit in the parlor on those long late-summer afternoons, with only yourself for company, you'd hear them go at it. The deep tones of the grandfather clock in the hall; the insistent tick,tick, tick of the mantel clock; the faraway sort of clicking the kitchen clock makes. They'd fight for primacy in the background as you traced your finger around the frame of the picture.
They'd never align, those ticks and tocks. They all kept the same time, more or less, but in their own way, it seemed. The hours and days and weeks and months and years would pass and they'd run their race, but finished all tied. You couldn't root for one over the other, for to win was to get there first, and then you wouldn't be keeping time.
Tracing your finger again around the frame over and over, in the soft afternoon light. The little faces fighting for your attention, jostling in the frame, but captured forever. All running ahead a little, or behind the others a bit, needing winding or resetting from time to time. All arriving at the same time.
Your beloved is in the yard again, outside the window, pulling the dandelions out of the lawn. Too late. They've gone white, and scattered themselves into the breeze, to rise again in good time.
[Thanks to reader and commenter Alison for sending along the lovely picture]