Time Whence

What Mystery is Time.
As second by second is
Wrenched hand over calloused hand
Across the face of the Clock.
Horrid Time.
Has made an old man of me.
And too long removed from a Time
That a past holds empty with
But the merest memory of your
Smile sates me. Til, a next passing
Moment I can enjoy the gloat in
Your eyes that inside me you yet find
Some small value. The yawning ages
Pass when tossed curls sought my eye.
Cruel memory-clear as a new
Spring morn-but a mist I can no
Longer hold, a kiss no longer felt,
An embrace-an empty thought.
O Time you’ve made an old man of me.
Your triumph is my despair,
But my one dream lives in a child who
Grows strong and wise I will not see grow old.
O Time–pass away hand over hand to the next tick;
Now rewound we ever try again.

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