My students counted the days until they
turned sixteen, free to take their driver’s test,
counted again until they reached eighteen,
free to vote, free to die for their beliefs.
They counted days until graduation,
counting on car, college, job, marriage, house;
so we counted too, until we started
counting back from what we’re not to know.
And now we stop our counting, up or down,
to tend a tune that will not sing itself,
to tend a love that grows with every year,
to tend each little minute and its joys.
We cannot turn back time, but we can turn
a page, tune a guitar, face the music.
Sep 1, 2013
Sep 1, 2013 at 3:41 PM UTC
My students counted the days until they
turned sixteen, free to take their driver’s test,
counted again until they reached eighteen,
free to vote, free to die for their beliefs.
They counted days until graduation,
counting on car, college, job, marriage, house;
so we counted too, until we started
counting back from what we’re not to know.
And now we stop our counting, up or down,
to tend a tune that will not sing itself,
to tend a love that grows with every year,
to tend each little minute and its joys.
We cannot turn back time, but we can turn
a page, tune a guitar, face the music.