(first appeared in a slightly revised form in The Neovictorian/Cochlea)

                The Ant


Within this hourglass, see here
this tiny soldier filching grains,
displacing moments from our year
to there, and there, by plans unclear
to all, save he who takes these pains.

Would that I could lightly speak
and move him in his quiet tongue,
I'd ask if he might hide a week
that, when the rose fades from your cheek
and mine, we might again be young.

And with those bits of time we would
be moved to make the most of love;
to cherish youth as lovers should,
love only as the aged could,
knowing there is not time enough.

What treasures then could buy those days
purloined from years so quickly passed?
For, should we go our separate ways,
squandering time in another's gaze--
we love the best, who love at last.