The concept of time - past, present, future - has always intrigued me, moreso after having successfully reached and relegated the half century mark in my own life.  I now find myself often contemplating the inevitability of my own mortality, tangible (not in the sense of being solid as the pen with which I write but rather to be as weighty as the sum total of every breath I have remaining) enough to feel it each time I feel the need to look over my shoulder only to find nothing there.
     In the first two lines of his poem The Paradox of Time , 19th century poet Henry Austin Dobson wrote:

Time goes, you say?  Ah no!

                                                           Alas, Time stays, we go.

 

     Concise and perfect.  Enough said.  Game over.

     Tonight we turn our clocks ahead and, by all accounts, lose an hour which none of us can afford to lose.  I offer here my own poem which, admittedly, collects and employs a number of cliches to present a sobering reality.

 

 

Equinox

 

Gain an hour.  Time has come.

Time of day; time of year;
time to spare; time will tell;
time out; timepiece; time line;
time goes on; time goes by;
time and tide wait for none.
Time heals all wounds.  Time was...
Time is short; time to go;
time flies; time fades; time's up.
Time of death.  Lose an hour.


     Now look at it again and realize that the poem consists of 10 lines, six syllables to each line, for a total of 60 syllables.  60 seconds in a minute; 60 minutes in an hour...

    * I am not certain how to complete my profile.  However, I am interested in any thoughts or comments readers wish to share with me.  My email address is: Iampentam@aol.com.