Today a task was sent, urgent request
for a house built of stone, marble, or lime
where I, and all that I love can find rest,
and an hourglass was set, throat choked with time.

Enough to savour these days I’ll soon miss,
where I can stretch myself out on the lawn,
eyes closed, body exposed to sun’s slow kiss,
deadlines, due dates- synonyms for a con.

Plenty room remains for these joy filled days,
why, instead, mire myself in misery,
let these tasks, like wolves, feast on malaise,
when I could enjoy this brief history?

At last, the hourglass holds one grain of sand,
not enough for what any home demands.