Inside a clock

In his face, there’s a garden
Fateful, permanent
Plants I don’t know the name of
Ones I can’t remember
Or relate to any plant I’ve ever seen before
40 long miles of grass and other greens
My feet ache traversing them
Although giving up had never crossed my mind
It did sound good
And felt better than it sounded
I soon ran out of things to say
I knew I didn’t have to say anything to keep moving
Forward
Backward
Still moving
Staying still
It occurred to me that time meant nothing in a garden
Green bay leaves and layers of muck and dirt and 12 unique rocks
They set the path for me, they were the big and little hands
I was the face, the dial, the plate