Many years ago, while sitting in the college library,
trying to work but mostly looking through the window,
this fragment of a poem came to me.
I've never been able to complete it satisfactorily, but maybe, that is the poem, just as it is.
Because I still like it, I suppose, (and remember it), I would like to add it as a PS to the post on the passing of time.
TIME
Time, for me, is measured in clouds,
Leaves on trees,
Waiting for the telephone to ring.
Coffee time, break time, tea time;
Letting down hems on the children's clothes.
