one hundred thousand thousand and one

every moment now is past

and therefore marked and

the names for each are etched

onto melodic strands that

you drop into a jar

one hundred thousand

thousand and one marked

moments that make the jar

a perfect measure

of the virtuous time

and pleasant peace

and tidal epic that you

once shared

the jar a wide-mouthed

ewer of crystal that you

place upon the window sill

of your aggrieved mind

and when you reach into

that blessed chamber

you swirl, with a child's

fingers, the dowry within

because a good man gifts

a daughter a certain trove

of one hundred thousand

thousand and one blessings

that no other can read

or attain or approach

or wash away or believe in

or dispel or ruin

what is yours is the memory

fashioned between the two

of you singly and without

the authority of others

and in a day, any day, most

nearly every day, you will

hear the words singing to you

as echoes in a deep wood

you will reach into your glassy 

globe, your crystal keep,

and swirl the subjects with

a child's devoted fervency

and let a word come to

your hand in a magical

fortuity and pull it out

to give it renewed breath

one of a one hundred

thousand thousand and one

wonders will sing in your palm

once again

as if you were back there

in the moment it was born

and he will be there as if

sitting beside you

and you will feel as

if the time has not fleeted,

has not been spent, has not

rolled on, but rather has hesitated

hovering in a small place

just for you in this conceding

luminescence in which God has 

allowed you to once again bask

before replacing the thing,

the gift, back into that

place in your jar

on the sill of your mind

i knew not the man,

or the name of the far-sighted

sprite that you birthed

together, father and daughter

but that is why it is yours alone,

your one of one hundred thousand

thousand and one time-woven

remnants of life's labors together