The thought of time,
As months tick up like all their little seconds just the same -
If spending be a true image of the thing,
I hope to spend you well.
But maybe humility would better ask,
That You would help me far from sin that mar the time,
That You would make my backbone strong to sit in quietness,
That you would teach my heart to want your ways,
For they make good the time,
For they make good the time.

Stumbling in the reeds of time,
And the Month rolls out into vibrant meadows,
My forearms lie buried in the swaying grass,
Their seconds beckoning me to sleep,
And I lay down at the day's peak,
A meek hill under the starry expanse,
Month's end sinks deeply into the receding archives,
And the vacancy between rolls up around the minutes hand,
Stored to be laid out again farther afield.