I feel the minutes sliding through my fingers
like motes of dust that autumn breezes blow,
and though I clench my fist, no moment lingers
longer while the seconds swell and flow.
Most days I wish that time would drift as slow
as Monarch butterflies in August heat.
Some days I'd like to tilt the status quo
and pour the hours out like grains of wheat
and flecks of chaff to crush beneath my feet.
When you're away from me, the clock-hands drag
their painted fingernails until we meet,
but when you're here the moments never lag.
I wait and suffer, part of time's dominions,
even when it flies on broken pinions.