On Time

Someone wrote on a little sparrow, Someone on the wheel barrow. It was all too narrow, I thought. So, time I bought. Eventually…a motif I got. Time it was! Tried to couch it in rhyme, But the content rebelled. Then, why waste it, Trying to put it in chime? So, on second thoughts, I freed it from the parameter. Now, what of Time? Time is… Well, precious? Relative? Fleeting—in its winged chariot? All this we know! Then, cyclic? Mm…debatable. Ah! Time is that time does. — R. V., Ram