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.