[NicknamedBob]

Sometimes I stay up late. Sometimes I rise early. It can be strange.

The Hours I Keep

My life is filled with treasures,
Rainbows, sunsets, lovely flowers,
Each I see as one more gift,
To set among my trove of hours.

Minutes stolen here and there,
Pondering the ways,
Glimpses of a bright tomorrow,
Mounting up to days.

Times I’ve taken stock of things,
Reckon I’ve done well.
Interest paid on gathered scents,
A fortune when I sell.

There will be an accounting,
Before my final sleep,
In minutes I’ve recorded for,
The hours that I keep.

NicknamedBob . . . . . May 21, 2007

[no-to-illegals]

Thanks Bob. As from my first attempt at true poetry, one can surmise am not a poet. Some of your poetry reminds me of a long deceased cousin who wrote words of prose. She was published once or twice. I never took prose seriously, as is easy to see, based on what I placed out there. Yours is good, sincerely.