A slight change is never noticed
when the frame of time is small.
As children we grew each day,
only the the annual notch showed how tall.

You may be the one who’s static in traffic
caused by construction—a nuisance it’s true—
but it's  the one now home from abroad who says:
“Everything is so different, this is not what I knew.”

The paradox is queerly commonplace:
This feeling that from day-to-day nothing has changed—
except maybe which day gets crossed out—
yet time spent in nostalgic reflection shows
the sheer metamorphosis that has come about.

We always move forward with goals in our telescopes.
When the glorious day comes in passing, it will end and that’s that.
Like the student, eager to stop school when the flowers first bloom,
will soon see foliage—a punishment that time begat.

They say you never know what you have until it’s gone,
yet few of them pause to watch the world transform.
They tell us to enjoy each day like it’s our last,
yet they curse time spent inside caused by a cleansing storm.

Even I neglected the sun’s sky, who gave way to the moon now born.
Precedence was given to my pen and this foul verse without scorn.
Yet, only the sun’s birth can give rise to this sentiment I mourn.