Clock hand shifts,
grains sift through
fade to dust,
hum in chimes,
hairs turn grey,
thin and fall,
Sitting here all evening—will I save time?
‘I have many minutes but not so many years left’
(elderly man in grocery lineup).
When I rush frantically, how much time have I lost?
In response to dVerse Poets Pub: ‘It’s all in the timing’—ruminations from Tuesday evening.