Time is a liquid whose viscosity
Is never constant, though we think it flows
With distant inevitability.
But place a mental finger on the hose
And watch how wildly the bright stream goes
Awry. Its fundamental constancy
Is but illusion, and its passage shows
A hitch wherever it slows down. To see
These alterations, you must be ready
To look around and note the way life grows,
Zipping in the young, yet fitfully
Sputtering in the old as if it froze.
So do not count your age in days and years
But in the flow of loves, worries, and fears.
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