Age

We never count the seconds, though they race

ahead and pull us in their wake. We face

the clock, reflections mirrored in its glass.

We never count the seconds as they pass.

All watches count; the minutes quickly turn

around their circles. As they do, we learn

we are impatient – minutes leave our lives

the minute that they enter. Thus arrives

the hour: a small, well-tended plot. We mark

our hours with bells and listen to their stark,

repeated question: Do I toll for you?

The midnight hour will bring to us a new

substantial day, and days can be like friends:

we name them, live for them, and each day lends

some meaning to our lives. We count the days,

but only when we wish we could erase

them. Weeks arise from ashes left behind

by seven days of living. They remind

us that the months are on their way, and soon

we find we have no need of clocks; the moon

can mark the passing time. Full-moon appears

twelve nights and now we count aloud in years.

On years, those heavyweights of time, we thrive:

the more we have, the more we are alive.