Like grains of sand, that slip through the hand:
Where’s the sense in counting?
Years pass quickly by, so soon we die,
for sins we’ll be accounting!
Some meek - some bold, times hot - times cold,
the life that’s ours, too fleeting.
To where winds blow? No one will know:
naught but momentary meeting.
We plan - we scheme, we act - we dream,
all comes to end at death.
Friends met - then lost: we count the cost,
they’ve drawn their final breath.
We live each day; our chosen way;
count not the hours we’ve spent.
As some will say, to live each day,
must be our sole intent.
From Nature’s earth, at dawn of birth,
ours, but a passing presence.
So count not grains, for Life soon wanes:
time always of the essence.
Rhymer June 15th, 2018
Had to take a break from the never ending garden work!