Hour glass
Where sand pours
as fast as age carries you.
Or as slow.
Racing. Rushing. Pushing.
Or simply waiting for some.
At eighty eight, all I do
Is wait.
willing sand to flow
hoping that soon, there will be no more.
At thirty eight, my grandson
Holds it askance,
Trying his might
To slow the flow.
Ah! But time eludes him,
Slips faster
than he can hold on to it.
I wish I could slip him mine
And take his.
