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Poem

TIME


Precise and constant it marches on.
It waits for no one, yet will stop to heal a broken heart.
Measured in thousandths of a second by swimmers
And in millenniums by the Creator of All Time.
They say it’s money—but it doesn’t make sense
That last weekend can seem so long ago
Yet each day went by so quickly. 
It’s fast as lightening and slow as molasses. 
Two can stand side by side and it flies for one and crawls for the other.
A friend to the child who anxiously awaits the school bell at the end of day.
An enemy to the lover who waits for the 10:35 to take her soldier to a far away land.
It means everything to the watchmaker
And nothing to the boy fishing on the riverbank.
It’s “Time On My Hands” and “Time In A Bottle”
And if you drop the e and add an i-n-g, it’s Rotten - and it’s Perfect.         
And twice a year it laughs at those of us who
Spring forward -- and then Fall back
Thinking that we can change it.

Mariruth Pyatt

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