Time, as the bookkeeper,
who is perfectly punctual
yet pays little attention to pace,
often lets sands fall quickly
in the eternal hourglass.

This patient negligence
turns material possessions to antiques
occasionally handled but not bought;
turns shrinking bodies to ash or dust
that settles beneath the infinite grains;
and turns short-lived words to quotes,
vividly and enthusiastically chattered
by our fragile grandchildren.

If a single sand could beckon to Time,
which would it beg to preserve?