SIFTING SANDS
~ Linda L. Dowd ~

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When in the morning of our days,
White sands sift slowly through,
The bottle neck of an hour glass,
~ Pristine, and fresh, and new.

The sun climbs high at noontime,
And with it comes full light.
We frolic in the golden rays,
Until the edge of night.

In the evening of our years,
The sands turn burnished brown ~
Rich from what was witnessed,
From life’s each up and down.

When moon does rise in night of days,
We long to slow time’s clock.
But sands slip thru’ the widening gap,
So quickly ~ then, …they stop.

When in the morning of our days,
White sands sift slowly through,
The bottle neck of an hour glass,
~ Pristine, and fresh, and new.
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