On the seventh day of the fourth month of (yet another) year.
It was too little
and it was too much.
It came too soon, too late;
too late, too soon.
Too little too late, too much too soon are more often bemoaned,
but isn’t
Too much too late, too little too soon
just as bad, in an inverse way?
Why, when, wherefore (having so recently seen another Shakespearean tragedy…)
How are we to measure, or judge, or distinguish
this truth
from that lie
and that moment
from this time?
The time flying past like a magpie in the story, catching up the wish
to carry it home.
Somewhere, it will all make sense again.