Don’t count every hour in the day,
make every hour in the day count.
How heavy and quick are indifferent hours,
Their tread crushes the most tender of dreams,
And though time knows not its pressing power,
It tramples the heart, yet hears not the screams.
A dancer, sculptor or siren with song
beholds the cold clock and its silent charge,
Each stage, chisel and note aches to belong
to minutes that mince, steps buoyant though large.
These tasks of days grate and night pounds abuse,
But the artist learns to dodge, buck and roll,
How clever is craft! How wily the muse,
For we, the moved, do not cower or loll.
The sun bears down and a blue moon marches,
~ Beneath their weight, my poetry arches ~
*Written Feb 12, 2012 For Paula Swanson's "Trample" Contest