I have fought against the tide of time,

and in lonelier days

I have felt its hand too heavy on my shoulder;

accused it of running too fast,

even of stealing my youth,

slipping unnoticed through young fingers.

Or complained that it went too slow,

impatient for things hoped for and unseen;

called it wasteful and idle,

of thoughtlessly dragging me

along its unwelcome paths.

But time is patient,

and not easily offended,

and so it took me to crossroads

and hoisted me up high,

time waiting suspended,

hoping I would see

the signposts scattered amongst the trees;

the beckoning undercurrent of life.

And when I chose a different way

time still rolled along beside me

guiding me the long way round,

gifting me with precious memories and people,

even with my children,

as if to ease my journey

and soothe the unavoidable pain.

Now I hold tight to the hand of time,

much more of a friend these days,

as it takes me down

a familiar worn and rutted road,

and my feet know the way.

Everything is older,

the trees taller yet sparser,

where only the strong ones remain.

The houses are all gone,

ruined monuments

to past experience and misstep.

But there’s a welcoming narrow way

marked by a sign still straight and strong

that my heart knows only too well,

leading to a great expanse

of sunny possibilty,

behind the fallen dreams and tangled reasons;

Time takes us back to eachother

and asks us to choose again.

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