When I was a child,
An hour seemed an eternity.
But now, in my mature years,
An hour is nothing,
And the day is the new hour,
And the week, the new day,
And so forth.
And while I do frequently regret the change,
And find the acceleration surprising—
Especially since it took
FOREVER
To climb the steps in my childhood—
I take solace in the expectation
That one of these days,
This rushing slide of time—
Will dump me out
Into the glory
Of that endless moment,
Where—
In a different way—
An hour is nothing.
