Time, that relentless snail,
outpaces every cheetah,
crawls on toward the infinitely
receding finish line
and has no rival but he
who truly lives
in the Present,
for whom the very
idea of a race
has disappeared.
Thus, waiting for Spring Break,
I’m amazed at the infinitesimally slow
pace of the progression of moments,
and how they ever added
up to 58 years I’ll never know,
and also wondering,
if I were really ''Here, Now'',
would there be such
thing as waiting, at all?
Max Reif
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/about-time-2/
