At age ninety five
2 years and a hyphen
Prove he was alive
But if that man dies
Before he's full grown
His years, months, and days
Fill up his turnstone
So numbers will scatter
The place we last rest
And they become more specific
For those who lived less
When do seconds mean nothing?
When do hours seem small?
How many must pass
Until they don't matter at all?
Sometimes I wonder
If the best lives are fast
For with too many summers
These minutes won't last
Time may move fast
Or time may move slow
But today will soon feel
Like forever ago
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