“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—

Never stops.

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.

Photo by Elizabeth Taylor; do not copy