that seem to find an endless supply
of minutes and hours
from some hidden well of time
with all its rules and all its powers.
You cannot speed them,
can’t manipulate their course.
They will come at your pleasure
or they will come by their force,
but they will come.
I have sworn there were days that had no end,
while I clawed for a moment of purpose, of beauty.
But somehow the next day always did begin
and slip the old one off when I wasn’t looking.
And so it goes with time that has passed:
the days may be slow, yet the years will prove fast.
Let me live deeply sun’s rise till set,
lest the wasting of days construct years of regret.