Years ramble on along a narrow highway
while daffodils peak in their bright yellow prime
and I scratch at the walls of the hourglass
from which I attempt to climb.
This life was a wet shiny bubble
blown by a child whom I never knew,
who’s heart was as wild as pictures
I colored with crayons before I met you.
Now hard blow the northern winds
and heavy fall the western rains,
and the rocks and sand have barely changed,
yet I have not remained the same
while the clock struck the hours before death came.