Our daily dose of time is a gift; that’s why it’s called “the present”.
Time Is Given
Here my last day before I cross, a magic, mystic river,
You want more time? Here, have some more,
Time rolls by so lazily, so generous a giver.
Take all that you may choose, and care not for,
The ways that you may use. It is a gift.
It’s yours to do with as you may,
No green-eyeshaded clerk will sift,
And sort reports about your day.
Time is given, like sunshine, unending in its glory,
Expanding all around you everywhere.
As you work to write your story,
Be sure to contemplate your words with care.
An ocean of time has flowed by me,
The source seems just as fresh.
I’ve loved the dance and company,
And other pleasures of the flesh.
I have enjoyed the quiet times.
I’ve read ten thousand books,
And music that’s wrapped up in rhymes,
And treasured sultry looks.
The gift of time that I have had,
Is like a tool of sorts,
So carefully the good and bad,
I put in my reports.
I know you’ve read them, and enjoyed,
My childlike glee to write them.
Despite the skill I have employed,
Don’t ask me to recite them.
They stretch back like the days gone past,
In all the varied ways I trod,
I did not think they long would last,
But I have marked the trail I plod.
Tomorrow starts another trail,
Adventure waits once more.
I think I’ll find myself a sail,
When I reach the final shore.
NicknamedBob . . . . February 26, 2005