Time
The ticking of the little hands,
Brings hours to the foreign lands,
Brings the stars out at night,
And dark overcomes the light.
The ticking of the little clock,
Brings sailors to the rocking dock,
Brings people home from far away,
And brings the summer and spring day.
The time is clock and clock is time,
The seconds of it made this rhyme,
It wove the threads of years past,
And makes the years ahead seem vast.
It tells men when to get to work,
And foxes just when they should lurk,
And the owl who goes to bed,
When we get up, Sleepyhead!
It tells the moon to go away,
And when the sun should stay,
It tells the moon to come about,
And tells the sun to blow light out.
It makes the grass turn brown or green,
It tells the mallard when to preen,
It tells mostly everything,
Even when the birds should sing.
I think this poem now should end,
But remember time is friend,
It sometimes may seem enemy,
But in the end you will see.
Copyright © Amy Travesser | Year Posted 2007
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