Father Time

It behooved Father Time to relax in his chair
even though he was cognizant--he was aware
that in just a few minutes midnight would be nigh:
Oh how fast, Father Time thought, the year had gone by!

January began with him newborn, all right,
and the new year in welcome for him was delight.
Yet now here he sat ready to wrap up his reign
as the time for the transfer had come once again.

So he looked at the clock but he thought of the year;
and although midnight’s stroke was apparently near
he recalled fondly the year two thousand fifteen
as he stroked his white beard in a state of serene.

He was teenager April, young man about June;
come July ‘twas half over--how quickly, how soon!
Middle aged in September, an elder in fall;
come the holidays, ready to exit it all.

Time ticked steady toward midnight as time is a thief;
Father Time had no qualms nor an inkling of grief.
Both the digital clock and his watch were in sync--
as the countdown continued, it just made him think

‘bout the good times and bad times and those even par,
and good life celebrations beneath moon and star.
So he wrinkled his brow when midnight made its stroke,
and in eye-twinkle time in surprise he awoke

as a babe once again with identity new
because it was new year and the old year was through.
Metamorphosis took Father Time through a door
to assume as a babe new year duties once more.


28 Lines
Writer’s Cramp Co-Winner
12-29-15