He is time

[aschueler]

I liked your poem and this is the first set of thoughts that fell out as I was reading it.   I hope to see more of it



....oh and the spacing is interesting, apparently it dates us, ironically. Before computers, we learned to type on typewriters; you use 2 spaces per period then. Now you use one space. Time.

I have a really hard time with this as my fingers do their own spacing.

http://www.grammarbook.com/punctuation/spacing.asp

He is time
 
kisses me hello with golden dawn,
offers me wisdom from the stars,
soothes my wounds with balm,
and loves me from the winking moon,
 
But he moves slowly when I want him to go fast,
stands still when things are unbearable,
speeds when I want a moment to last.
Sometimes he even teases me to try
and catch him.
 
Might as well attempt
to hold a slippery water snake.
 
With each revolution around the sun he
has watched me toddle then run,
mature from tender and angelic
to fresh-faced, frisky and coltish,
then vibrant like new green leaves
and brilliant virgin blooms--to tired,
wearily weathered as untreated
shingles near the shore pounded
by three category fours in a row.  I assume you mean cat 4 hurricanes.  this feels forced.
 
Sometimes he seems cruel.
Teaching isn’t always kind;
the learning is hard.  But in the end
knowledge, a friend.  How else
is one to learn to balance buckets
overflowing the brim without sloshing
or spilling; lifting makes you strong.   I like these lines but not linking buckets to time well for me
 
He instructs me to pluck those first white
hairs, wince at lines that aren’t even there
yet, then not to care--over stretchmarks,
droops and sags, or dye resistant grays,
to even be proud of my age.  Nothing wrong with aging, but that's my opinion.  
 
Then before I am ready or just right,
maybe even way past my idea of when,
he will send me goodbye into the night,
saying, “it is time” and I will say,
“farewell father, father time.”