Tick-tock

Thinking about time,

each moment a knife-edge.
There’s an obvious rhyme.

We’re on the dime.
We’re a bird new-fledged.
We’re flying through time.

Drawing a lime-
line from porch to hedge;
and we need a rhyme,

so we think we hear the chime
of a clock practicing solfege
to kill time.

There’s a big pine
outside our window—we aledge
a satisfying completing rhyme

awaited still when our prime
green has withered with the sedge.
Adapting to time.
No perfect rhyme.