He is time

[71degrees]

Revision

He is time

 
who kisses me hello with golden dawn,
soothes my wounds with balm.
He loves me from the winking moon,
and offers me wisdom from the stars.

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,
teasing 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, and frisky,
then vibrant like new green leaves
and brilliant virgin blooms--to tired,
wearily weathered as wood shingles 
near the shore--pounded by storms.
 
To learn the art of balancing hourglasses 
and walking without watching the sand drain 
is in vain. Only for a little while can one fight.

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.
 
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.”      

Original:

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.
 
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.
 
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.
 
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.”         

Much better segue into the poem. I like your revisions. I think more could be trimmed (e.g. and S1, but S1) to make the cadence of the poem flow more evenly. Everyone "reads" aloud their own poems differently and these extra conjunctions, etc. might not bother your oral style, but taking into consideration the "reader" of the poem, further trimming would benefit (all my own preferences, of course). All in all, I like your revised edition. Thanks for posting it.