A poem

The afternoon
teeters
on the edge of evening,
I sense
time pouring out
of my cup,
steady streams of minutes
mounting up
my life’s, afternoon
is nearing night.
Morning’s gift squandered
by a clueless child,
the man now in his shadow
hears birds flutter
his heart is racing now
day is waning fast,
Oh, how beautiful is the afternoon
enough time perhaps
to savor the golden hour.

C26