Life in the fast lane,
full speed ahead,
as gazelles leap over time,
cheetahs outrun the thunder.
We bulldoze through iron walls,
hit the hitters and race the racers,
fly over mountains,
leap over fences and fence the leapers,
arrive before the lightning
hits the ground,
step on toes and fingers
and feelings and dreams
and smiles and violets.
We get there before the ominous clouds,
before the tempest curses the glassy seas.
We get there before the pouring rain,
before the heavy waves smash the rocks,
before they sink back into the angry waters,
before the rainbow smiles at the ships,
before the falling sun hits the horizon,
the crimson light shines into the night,
and the night casts its shadow on the earth.
We reach the golden years
before Father Time knows who we are,
before he arrives at our domicile,
before he knocks at our door,
before he begins to dig into us,
before he pulls out our sprightly spirit,
our enthusiastic climb to the future.
He brings the hereafter
to our contented homes,
the funeral plans and the eulogies,
the flowers and the tears
and the night before the day.
He pushes us up ahead as we
stop to look at the roses in the garden.
He wipes out our progressive steps
as we climb into the future.
Father Time, go home and come back later.