Time has washed our faces, our lives
We bear its crags and gullies;
Our eyes are bright then empty;
Our step is joyous then halting
And always it beats: it is the slow clock,
The hours in a hospital room
Waiting for the worst news;
It is the rush of the sea – thrilling one minute,
A drain on the spirit next.
It seeks us in the long nights
Where we toss and worry; imagine
The worst to see fears fade in the sun.
It is the low serenity of Nina Simone
Who wonders, as we all wonder,
Where the time goes; we see it
Escape in decades of tumult,
The joyous and sad Christmases
Where we wish once more for the crepe
Hand of a grandmother; the spilling
Sunshine laughter of a gone-too-soon child,
And we wonder, if our time is coming.
We are reminded as we see a frail frame
Struggle for breath; see the thin arms,
The face draw in and we know – we all know.
So we mark time, thinking, thinking,
And it takes no heed: it marches, and
Then we see it on our own face,
The little signs, and we press closer to see
That it is almost too late,
That the song has almost played out