Time waits for no one; we’ve all heard it said.
But it changes shoes; some skate & some tread.
It marches in spite of dread & desires.
It doles low slung days & frightful high wires.
If you’ve got rhythm, & foresight, you surf…
Happily joining with time on its turf.
One can choose to rage & flail against time.
They’re song loud & short; no chorus…no rhyme.
Time’s dance spun for me a dearly fine thread.
And…
I keep weaving; choosing old over dead.
L.B.Stowe 