Time begins to slow the longer one waits,

and crawls to a stall the nearer it comes to the goal.

Some, so close, end up abandoning the whole

quest under this pace that suffocates

the straining hope. It’s like a man who wades

out against an incoming tide that rolls

him back and grinds him into the shoal,

for all his thrashing, only to capitulate.

Were I more like the heron I could bide

my time, easy going on gangly stilts

above the swells and churning clouds of silt

ready to spear the dream as it swims by,

instead of trying to hurry things in my

vain attempts to push the ocean aside.