The Hour Glass

She wrote something like this:

When conception occurs, the hour glass is tipped.

Sands sifting, sifting. Piles reversing, one side is now full, soon the other. Particle follows particle, one after the other, ceaselessly, consistently slipping through.

My days sift, slip, and the bigger pile has already reversed sides. My tipped hour glass is in motion, sifting, softly gathering in the bottom.

I look on in wonder, sad but content in His love, not fully comprehending. The keeper of the hour glass, my hour glass, is revealed in love, but sorrow mixes none the less.

One day I will be free from slipping, sifting, soft sands.