Time is our currency, so they say.
It spends in hours and hours of sand
and slips as water with the day.
Shadows in the twilight make away
receding on this black and silent land.
Time is tender, so they say.
Soft yellow slides across the bay.
The marshes in sun’s new light are fanned.
Light slips away like water into day.
By noon the light is in full play,
racing, slipping out of hand.
Time is our currency, they say.
Full circle at the end of day
light falters, chimeric, panned
and slips like water with the day.
How can we spend what cannot stay?
All gold, intangible, in our hand.
Time is like money, so they say.
It slips, it slips, it slips away.