Twelve

I was sitting in the basement of my childhood home,

on a folding chair, leaning over the large

woodbox. I thought the woodbox made the perfect desk.

The fire in the woodstove to my left, crackling,

keeping me warm. I must have been inspired.

I was twelve years old when I wrote my first poem.

"What Is Time?"

Time is a clock that never stops.

For some, time is fast, they never even rest.

For some, time is slow, which is always a bore.

For me, time is an adventure.

It's a time to live.

It's a time to be happy.

It's a time to explore places where I've never gone before.

To me, time makes my life more to live for.

Because it won't stop for me.

It won't stop for you.

It won't stop for anyone.

So never waste time because time needs you.

It needs you to fill the minutes with life.

That's why time is what it is.

It's a silly little poem, but I love it just the same.

I love it because it was simply how I was feeling.

- In that moment, at the fabulously hopeful age of twelve.

Unrevised, unchanged, I still think it rocks.

My God-daughter just turned twelve.

I've been thinking of her quite often.

Does she share the same hope and

excitement for her future?

She's amazing, smart and beautiful.

I hope she knows.