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