I have an obsession with time
and tick tocking clocks tremble at my touch,
tickle my thought.
The people in the street notice it
and when they do…with regret and sadness,
Greenness and water…brownness and decadence
and again the same.
How quant and soft,
And sleeping children turn into proud men
And soft dreams at night and morning crisply cupping coffee.
I sigh softly at such times
and touch morning with welcome fingers.
I am not afraid of time as brown leaves and dying men
turn full circle,
and trembling fingers brown with age,
and fond memories of time were
so gently smiling, I turn my thoughts to the morn,
I remember all.