These Days

I wrote this one when I was about sixteen. If I felt that way then, imagine how I feel now!

Time is slipping!
Like
sand,
silvered sand,
though
our fingers.
And though
we try to
grasp it,
it keeps on
slipping
down
in a
silken ribbon
of
moments gone
fading
rushing by like the wind as it blows.
These days
that are
so precious?
We cannot
keep them
but can only
gaze
in delight
while
we have them
and then
we can remember.