Time will slip —
days keep flying by,
leaves aloft
a wind that carries
the season’s loose change

What can I do, with the time I have to put words on this page? As I think to myself, the moments tick by. Minutes pass. Time is invested in getting to the point where I can actually begin typing with some speed; but I am a writer, and so I write.

Here I am again, and surprising myself by actually being able to put words back on the page. But what do you have to add to the conversation, Surfer Rob? Does it really matter, in the grand scheme of things, what I have to say about anything?

If there’s a bustle in your hedgerow, don’t be alarmed now;
it’s just a spring clean for the May Queen.

Of course, this post was started two weeks ago. Of course it was! As I transitioned back to the day shift the time got away from me again, and like one entranced by the piper’s flute I got drawn away by things . . . some more important things, some less important things . . . just not writing.

Well: this is me, resolving not to leave drafts in my draft box.

Every crossroads has a sign that says “WRITE!” And I can write a mad haiku, I tell you what — but following it up with something that really digs into the meaning of the poem? That’s getting tough.

Yes there are two paths you can go by, but in the long run
there’s still time to change the road you’re on.

So is this something the poetry masters of old ran into? Am I doing such a solid job of saying something that it speaks for itself, and putting the rest of the page out of a job? Should I say less, and let my readers take away more?

Or is my mind becoming this magnificent rotting hulk, becoming one with the beautiful earth and sky, trapped between the immutable waters and rippling with the stream of slipping time? To be a rock and not to roll?

And it makes me wonder.

Maybe someday I won’t have to say anything at all.