Time is never wasted,

because in its entirety

it is nothing other than a gift.

People speak, lips move

And spirits breathe out

Through lived realities unshared.

Glimpses and mysteries, though some bore,

Are always a privilege;

Encounters with another.

My world spins on within my soul;

What might others glean

Of all that I hold most dear?

Do I ramble on, meanderingly long?

Am I useful, honourable, a blessing?

Does my king shine through?

For, after all, this Time
And these encounters,
Are his gift to us of that strange thing called Life.