“Time,” New Era, Aug. 2006, 49
It slips through your fingers like sand,
Each grain a second.
You wish you could mold it together
And protect it,
Take fragments of it and preserve them.
It rushes past—
A swirl of images around you—
The hands never cease moving;
With each second it makes itself known;
Yet we ignore it—
Until we face the knowledge that
We’re nowhere without it.