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As Time Passes By
Minutes into days into years,
flaky and brittle but precious,
like the hair on a child's head.
All of it washes away in waves,
as gently as the tiny ripples
in a silvery stream nearby.
Time always flows ever so close
and ever so tender, perhaps
kissing the aching joints
as it pirouettes forward again,
ever graceful, kind, merciful.
Yet so ruthless in its whims
as to give what must be given
without provocation nor explanation,
always silently, sweetly satisfied
to simply pass you by.
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