by Harvey Scott
I saw the old thief, Father Time,
come hirpling down the road;
he had a sack upon his back,
lost minutes were his load.
He opened it and showed to me
not minutes, but a host
of years, decades, a century
and more, of minutes lost.
“I want to buy a year,” I said
“and I shall pay you well.”
“If this earth’s mould were finest gold,
to you I would not sell.
For I have minutes stolen from kings,
from Milton, Shakespeare, Bach.
How could you buy such precious things?
Your common gold is trash!”
He tied his sack and said, “Farewell,
young man, I’ve got my fee.”
For, while I tried to make him sell,
he stole an hour from me.
Happy New Year, everyone.
This poem is a reminder to make our minutes count in this new year. As some wise soul once said, “Little and often make a heap in time.“