WOULD I CALL MYSELF
A garment worn thin by time,
then why a body fading after prime?
The seasons mark their prey relentlessly
and swallow everything triumphantly.
Would I call myself a shaft of wheat
or hay when its life cycle is complete?
Then why a new born babe in rosy glow,
child, girl, or woman as I grow?
From seed to dust the endless mill grinds on.
Blossoms of spring by winter's chill are gone.
Seductive youth beguile me not in dreams,
for form is not as solid as it seems.
It slips through fingers of my aged hand,
like time in an hour glass of sand.