Time was once a balance beam
And I a gymnast, just to stay on it;
On time.

Hard on its edge I ran my routine,
And prayed for precision, not to fall from it — 
Fall behind.

Now time is pretty much a bean‑bag chair;
Amorphous, conforming to my derriere.
Time is full and thick and warm in the sun,
As I nestle into it.

I don’t get much done;
But there’s all the time in the world to do it.

Categories: Voyaging Life