Twenty-four hours –
What an arbitrary number!
What is the faithful measure of a day?

Some pass by like clouds, golden dew
On golden-green grass. Sweet in their
Haste like the eager slips of a lover
For weeks unseen.

Others limp like cold logs
Thudding across a dusty floor
Toward tomorrow’s dim embers.

As life widens (Along with my waist)
It’s true the days pass quickly, and yet
The hours seem longer than the moments
They measure. The seasons no longer seem
To gradually pass but to announce themselves
Suddenly as my mind is—for a moment—stolen
Away from the common affairs of work and life.

So what is the true measure
Of a day, a second, a life?

How many hours
Are in an hour?

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