This is a poem I wrote a dozen years ago.
The years creep by,
And childhood's slowly gone.
The years begin to walk a steady pace
As we're teens, then young adults.
The years walk quicker, then they jog
As we hit our twenties and our thirties.
By forty-five, the years are running in an easy lope.
Each is distinct, but then is gone before we know it.
That's where I am now.
I wonder--as we hit our eighties,
Do years fly by like utility poles on a country road,
Seen at sixty miles per hour?
So teach us to number our days, that we may gain a heart of wisdom.