silently puppeteering,
ceaselessly poised under our noses and over our heads,
most visible when crawling by,
and too often moving much too fast.
time is an imposing figure,
intimidating and all too present.

yet it is also just the ticking of a clock,
seconds between minutes,
minutes between hours.
clouds slowly drifting across the sky,
the rising of the sun and moon,
generous and unhampered.

and is it fair to give it our burdens?
to use it as a pocket in which we neatly tuck away our problems?
time is not our enemy,
but neither is it our friend.
we ask it to heal all wounds
but time has no cures and no sympathy.
time has no intentions.

and so we ponder and debate and ask it for favors,
and time watches and says nothing.