Time slips past like a fleeting breeze,
Whispering secrets through rustling trees.
One blink, the morning fades to noon,
Another, and night swallows the moon.
Yesterday lingers, a shadowed trace,
Yet tomorrow arrives in a breathless race.
The clock hands spin, they never wait,
Turning moments to memories far too late.
Laughter echoes, then drifts away,
Children grow and hair turns gray.
Seasons shift in a hurried stream,
Like waking up from a fleeting dream.
Oh, slow the clock, let moments stay,
Let golden hours not fade away.
Yet time moves on, both kind and cruel,
A rushing tide we cannot rule.
Stop the clock,
Ky Baker
Indiana FFA State Treasurer
