The seconds mount to minutes grow to hours,
and add to days and weeks and months and years.
No creatures of this planet have the powers
to alter time’s progression. Petty fears
and grand ambitions neither speed our clocks
nor slow the reeling of our clues of thread.
We dwell within the bars of tempo. Locks
of time adorn our doors until we’re dead.

We never know how long a life we’ll get
but each of us is given in a day
four score six thousand seconds plus a bit,
to dream awake or toss asleep or play.
We cannot cook our books of time, but I
intend to squeeze the moments till I die.