A poem a day, and I must write them all in time.
My muse I’ll always remember to call in time.
The Golden Age once lost will come around again,
evolving and revolving, a vast sprawl in time.
A new father, singing, can’t hold onto the beat,
a challenge, getting the baby to bawl in time.
On Icarian wings I lift myself alone,
and though I rise in space, I fall in time.
My joints ache when they know that the rain is coming,
and my sinuses tell me when it’s pollen time.
Footmen with whiskers, on a faintly orange coach,
begging Cinderella to leave the ball in time.
Art as Immortality? No shield against the
blazing future, but a frail parasol in time.
Romans meet dinosaurs meet Daleks meet Doctor:
the Tardis is navigating a squall in time.
Those troubles you face, that loom so large before you,
know that even these—it’s true!—will seem small, in time.
Out in the herb garden, after the storm has passed,
we gather scattered rosemary and fallen thyme.
Now Tandava has finished his poem for the day,
sufficiently rhymed, lined, and done, withal, in time.