Time is always running out, time is always of the essence. Is time more precious to a leatherback turtle than it is to a Mayfly? Time, to man, comes in seventy year increments, with each believing that whatever needs be done must be done within that time frame. Will the American experiment end with a violent lurch to the left, as the populace votes for continued bread, circuses and free ice cream? Lord Macaulay, who knew something about holding the bridge against fearful odds, thought so, and so do I. The America I came of age in, post WW2 America, a man on the moon America, is gone, and will never again be. We can only do our best, but time, as usual, will tell the tale. But the question then reverts to the age old, What is time?

 

 

Time is not a passing stream

Of man and man’s events

All measured by our inner clock

In order to make sense

Tectonic plates move without cease

And seem to go so slow

We think of them in eons time

Yet how are we to know

For time is an illusion

Time is massless, tied to space

With different tempos, different times

For every different place

And so it is with man’s affairs

We see with childlike eyes

The passing seasons come and go

The stars glide through the skies

And still we think in lifetime terms

Believing all things last

Not knowing that the present

And the future are the past

The plates of history are swift

Like shadows on the wall

As ships of state once seen as great

Fly as before a squall

Dictators fall, dictators rise

Republics do as well

The plates of time decide the end

But what end? Who can tell?

 

 

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