'Three Dimensions and If Possible Four'

We walked on a mountain last Saturday. You don't believe me? I've got proof. Some of it went home with us, stuck in shoe-sole crevices and trapped in trouser creases. That fine quartz sand drawing tourists to Pensacola and other beaches along the Gulf of Mexico has washed down from the Appalachian Mountains over millions of years. Tiny grains, eroded and deposited, not just once but endlessly by wave action and sea-level changes.

We had some tense moments last week...more than what we're used to these days. SAM and I drove back home last Friday afternoon to watch Grandson while his mom and dad went to a church retreat in Destin. The date was clearly marked on my calendar. March 11. Nothing out of the ordinary, right? Wrong. On the surface, everything was smooth, for Grandson's sake. As soon as I turned on the TV to watch the evening news, SAM reminded me. Disturbing images and sounds. Turn it off. Okay, I will, for a while.

You see I'm trying in all my stories to get the feeling of the actual life across--not to just depict life--or criticize it--but to actually make it alive. So that when you have read something by me you actually experience the thing. You can't do this without putting in the bad and the ugly as well as what is beautiful. Because if it is all beautiful you can't believe in it. Things aren't that way. It is only by showing both sides--3 dimensions and if possible 4--that you can write the way I want to. (Ernest Hemingway to Dr. C. E. Hemingway, 1925, Selected Letters)  

While Grandson made sandcastles on the beach, his other Grandpa who lives in Japan tried to get word to his daughter. Phone service was unavailable. Somehow, he managed to get a message to her on Facebook. "I'm all right," he wrote. That's more than I've been able to manage lately. Sometimes the words refuse to come out, and I can't even manage to call or send a simple e-mail message to someone dear to me. Or leave an encouraging comment on a Japanese friend's site. March 11--even before 2011--had already left its mark on me in "three dimensions and if possible four."

And life for a few years was pretty flat until this little guy showed up to hold my hand and make his mark on me--on March 11, in "three dimensions and if possible four." It's beautiful, don't you think? Life. Sometimes I need tangible reminders.

Teach a Grandson to Fish and Get Hooked on His Lines!

Walk2Write and I head to the far reaches of the western Florida panhandle for another much anticipated weekend at home. Son, grandson Micah, and I plan a fishing trip for Saturday morning. For me and the better half to get our weekend fix of the grandson, we offer to keep him for a while Friday afternoon. During our time together, Micah finds out it is my birthday next weekend and immediately proclaims, “Grandpa! I know what I want for your birthday! I want a party barge with brownies and cupcakes and lots of fish everywhere!” Who knows where he came up with that concept, but it sounds like a good deal to me.



Saturday morning, I meet son and grandson at our usual boat launch, where a nearby meandering tributary of the Escambia River flows into the bay. For the first hour, we do only fishing and no catching (my normal modus operandi). Finally Micah convinces his dad to bait his Diego fishing pole (a kiddie pole about two feet long with four pound test line) with a stiff, long-dead minnow, one of many saved by Micah from a previous fishing trip, and bagged in a zip-lock baggie as a precious commodity. After a few minutes of trolling, the pole jerks a few times and Micah starts reeling it in as quickly as his little hands can create a repetitive, circular motion. He cranks and cranks on the tiny reel, and within less than a minute we spot a giant redfish on the end of his line. It takes out line a couple times, but amazingly he hangs onto the pole and continues cranking. We see the fish about three feet from the boat; it’s large, estimated 22-27 inches (the fish, not the boat). The net is readied by son, and we think this river monster is destined for the frying pan just before the 4-pound-test line breaks. Grandpa and son are more disappointed than grandson. Micah just smiles and exhales a big “Whew!”





Another dead minnow is acquired from Micah’s zip-lock treasure bag and baited on a jig head. Son rigs the tempting morsel on a sturdier grown-up pole, equipped with 40 # braided line and 30# mono-leader. Within a few minutes of trolling, the pole starts its up-and-down dance and Micah tries to pull in the fish but can’t handle the larger rig. Grandpa takes over the task with grandson’s robust approval, and within a minute or so a 22+ inch redfish is ours for the keeping. After landing the catch, Micah excitedly exclaims “Grandpa we had teamwork!” and we give each other a high five. A few more nice size speckled trout are landed, but the redfish have gone back to sleep; no one is disappointed, especially grandpa.



Micah looks up at the sky and says, “Grandpa! I see a dolphin in the sky. Do you see it?” I scan the shapes formed by the clouds, but have to honestly reply that I really don’t. Micah says, “I can see his face!” I have to think we may have a little artist on our hands. The clouds dissipate, but Micah’s enthusiasm doesn’t.

After a long period of trolling, Micah puts his Diego pole down on the bow of our little plastic boat. Son uses his fatherly voice and says, “Micah, put it back in the rod holder. A fish could pull it right out of the boat and into the water.”

Micah matter-of-factly states, “No Daddy, they’re not so strong.”

Son reiterates with a little more emphasis, “Micah, put it in the rod holder. A fish could pull it in.”
“No daddy, they’re not so strong.”

“Micah, do it now! You don’t know what size fish you might get. It might be small or a really big and strong one that can pull your pole in the water.”

“No, they aren’t so strong, daddy.”

Grandpa interrupts the dialogue and addresses son, “You know that you are getting payback." Son looks puzzled.

“What do you mean, payback?”

“I mean, your three-year old son already knows more than you do. Sound familiar?” Son just grins.






Back at the ranch (house), Peanut enjoys a peek and a sniff at the catch-of-the-day. Can we keep it? From the way she licks at it, you'd think she's either made a new friend...or developed a taste for sushi. Paws up and step away from the fish, cat!

Life in the Fast Lane in Northwest Florida

Okay, so life isn't so exciting this time of year in Northwest Florida for most people. We, always the walkers, tried our hand at bowling on January 16, 2010, at Avalon Bowling near Pensacola, Florida, since the weather wasn't so accommodating for walking outside. Kelly Kulick, on the other hand--well done, by the way--might have some fine pointers to help us walkers on the matter of bowling. When the weather's in the gutter, you gotta thank your mutter for takin' ya to the place that might just set the pace for life in the fast lane... Our son at one time was keen on making his mark in the auto body scene, which is definitely something Kelly Kulick might understand. Son's game plan has changed a bit since his mutter--and vater!--showed him how to stay outta the gutter.

NN/SOTS: 'Expatiate Free O'er All This Scene of Man'

Awake, my St. John! leave all meaner things
To low ambition, and the pride of kings...
Let us (since life can little more supply
Than just to look about us and to die)
--from Alexander Pope's An Essay on Man, 1733--

*****************************************

By the time a New Year is upon us, cooler weather has usually lulled our Florida garden into a slower, more manageable growth rate. The past two months, though, have given us a run for our money with a greater-than-normal amount of rainfall. My pink carpet roses have begun to bloom again, and the lantana sneaks through the screened lanai. If I don't soon nip it in the bud, it will send even more shoots poking through the screen and wrap itself around our feet as we sun ourselves on the patio. I could imagine it dragging us by the ankles to the pool, over the edge of the concrete, and into the chilly water--if I were inclined toward something approaching nihilistic thinking. The recent climate-change conference in Copenhagen revealed a whole host of people inclined in that direction. Apparently, some of those people haven't a clue or don't care what sort of message that kind of thinking and behavior sends to children. Are we headed toward swift and sure annihilation, pushed over the edge of a climate-change cliff by a cloud of greenhouse gases? Who's to say? A bunch of scientists and politicians can't see the future, unless they have some supernatural ability I'm not aware of. Is it right to take sensible steps as stewards of the earth to protect it and its inhabitants? Of course--all of the inhabitants, including the human kind, deserve care and respect.

Expatiate free o'er all this scene of man;
A mighty maze! but not without a plan;

A wild, where weeds and flowers promiscuous shoot,
Or garden, tempting with forbidden fruit.

*************************************

Our pink grapefruit trees have put on a shamefully prodigious growth spurt in the past couple of months. Now that the one fruit has been picked and eaten, they are free to use their energy for branching out and putting on new leaves.

Daughter and Mr. T have also decided to branch out a bit. Why do you suppose he's on one knee? Look carefully at Daughter's left hand.



Together let us beat this ample field,
Try what the open, what the covert yield;
The latent tracts, the giddy heights, explore
Of all who blindly creep, or sightless soar;
*************************************
I don't remember much sign language because I haven't practiced it very much. Daughter and I took a signing class a few years ago. She had a massage client at that time who was deaf, and she wanted to be able to communicate more effectively with him and other hearing-impaired people. I went along to the class for moral support and because I thought we could practice together and not lose what we learned. Somehow, we managed to forget about practicing and have forgotten most of what little we did learn. I do remember some of the alphabet, though, and it seems to me that Micah is signing the letter "F" in this picture. Ever since he was a tiny baby, he has been very expressive with his hands. I've read that babies seem to have ways of communicating quite well before they even begin to speak, if we are careful enough to take note. Micah is already talking up a storm and putting coherent sentences together, but I think he still likes to use his hands. We were being told to smile for the camera, and he couldn't talk at this point. Or maybe he wanted to say something abstract like "I love my family" and didn't have the right words in mind just yet.

Eye Nature's walks, shoot folly as it flies,
And catch the manners living as they rise;
***************************************
Yesterday I took a walk with Mr. T while Daughter was at work. He's here for a few more days before he has to return to Texas, and a walk seemed like a good opportunity to talk about stuff. I took the camera along because I had seen something along the road not far from where that falling-down house stands. Whatever this thing is, it's been in this spot for about a month now, standing up through repeated rains and high winds. To me, it looks like a version of Father Time, lifting up his arms. Is it in supplication or in warning, I wonder? I thought about pushing the weeds aside to discover what it's made of--plastic, paper?--but then I decided to leave it in place for other walkers to see and wonder about.

Laugh where we must, be candid where we can;
But vindicate the ways of God to man.
--from Pope's essay as above--

Guess what's on our New Year's Day menu? Beans, of course, and some of this beautiful stuff from the garden.
*************************************
Please visit Ramblingwoods.com and see what's been keeping other lively imaginations busy this week in their Nature Notes/Signs of the Season posts. (I hope Michelle doesn't mind too much that I've shortened the reference to her meme to NN/SOTS!)

All Hands on Deck--Saving Time at the National Naval Aviation Museum

As raindrops

Before us, Days fly by--

Catching Time with Micah and

Setting it free to dry--
Someone's Tear

An early morning rain shower and lingering clouds on Saturday, the first day of August, left us with few options for spending the day with Micah. We chose an indoor activity--the National Naval Aviation Museum--but wondered as we drove out to the Pensacola Naval Air Station whether we were making a big mistake. What would a two-year-0ld boy do among all those planes and people? Would he get bored in five minutes and throw a tantrum?

We needn't have worried. He didn't waste a single minute on tears and found plenty of things to occupy his mind and hands. There were planes to fly...

...and new horizons to scan. Someone has seen fit to add a play area designed for toddlers. It's surrounded by seats for weary adults to park themselves for a few minutes and watch boundless energy in motion. Museum volunteers ensure that the kids stay safe while playing.

SAM and I have been to the museum several times over the past few years, but this visit was special. We didn't have to try very hard to see things anew through the eyes of a two-year-old child.

Real men carry diaper bags if necessary and agree with requests to strike a pose--IMHO.

The Builders

All are architects of Fate,

Working in these walls of Time;

Some with massive deeds and great,

Some with ornaments of rhyme.

Nothing useless is, or low;

Each thing in its place is best;

And what seems but idle show

Strengthens and supports the rest.

For the structure that we raise,

Time is with materials filled;

Our todays and yesterdays

Are the blocks with which we build.

Truly shape and fashion these;

Leave no yawning gaps between;

Think not, because no man sees,

Such things will remain unseen.

In the elder days of Art,

Builders wrought with greatest care

Each minute and unseen part;

For the gods see everywhere.

Let us do our work as well,

Both the unseen and the seen;

Make the house where gods may dwell

Beautiful, entire, and clean.

Else our lives are incomplete,

Standing in these walls of Time,

Broken stairways, where the feet

Stumble, as they seek to climb.

Build today, then, strong and sure,

With a firm and ample base;

And ascending and secure

Shall tomorrow find its place.

Thus alone can we attain

To those turrets, where the eye

Sees the world as one vast plain,

And one boundless reach of sky.

Vatertag--You're It!

"The Brain--is wider than the Sky--
For--put them side by side--
The one the other will contain
With ease--and You--beside..."


The temperature yesterday afternoon soared into the upper 90s (Fahrenheit), but this intrepid family--well, four of us, anyway--decided to visit an unusual park in Pensacola. Dinosaur Adventure Land promises on its website to be an "amazement park," sure to make you use your brain and not just entertain. I'm sure Micah's brain wheels were spinning like crazy as he explored the nearly empty place. Only a handful of people wandered about the place, as hot as the day was. Two-year-old Micah was nearly unstoppable. On the day before Vatertag, two generations of dads and this "Jam-ah" followed him around, urging him to slow down and take frequent water breaks. He calls SAM "Jap-ah," but his Aunt, that naughty Daughter-mine, thinks it's funny to have him call me Shamu, and SAM is aka "Chubba." I hope that as his reason evolves he will reckon Auntie's lesson as foolishness. We have to be careful with what we say around the little guy. I won't tell him anything yet about our family's Vatertag joke. It's a bit crude and has to do with eating beans and making some noise. At this age, he soaks things up and pays little attention to consequences. Sometimes he even goes the wrong way.

"The Brain is deeper than the sea--

For--hold them--Blue to Blue--

The one the other will absorb--

As Sponges--Buckets--do--"

"The Brain is just the weight of God--

For--Heft them--Pound for Pound--

And they will differ--if they do--

As Syllable from Sound--"

--Emily Dickinson, c. 1862--

Making the First One Last

The Butterfly wished for a bride; and as may well be imagined, he wanted to select a very pretty one from among the flowers; therefore he threw a critical glance at all the flower-beds and found that every flower sat quietly and demurely on her stalk, just as a maiden ought to sit before she is engaged; but there were a great many of them, and the choice threatened to become wearisome...

We traveled some miles this past Friday to our home in Florida. Thankfully, the price of gas was cheap, and our Dodge truck--a leftover from the drilling business we used to own--did not set us back too many of those green objects worked so hard for and disappearing more quickly than we could have ever anticipated. When Hubby and I married nearly twenty-nine years ago, though, times were tough then too for us and a lot of other people our age. We were young when we married, the first ones among our friends to tie the knot, and we have made it last while some of our friends have not been so fortunate. As you can see by the gauges pictured above, Hubby was driving responsibly on the Interstate highway, not speeding, and we had a few more miles to go before needing to fill up the tank or empty anything else. Hubby remarked that the last half of the tank always seems to disappear more quickly than the first half. How can that be? If a half is really half, then each one should last the same amount of time as the other one. Hubby replied that most fuel gauges somehow lose their calibration or whatever it is that keeps them honest in the beginning.

...The spring went by, and the summer drew toward its close; it was autumn, but he was still undecided...


At our exit from I-65, we noticed a new casino almost ready to open for business. These are heady days for the Poarch Band of Creek Indians and the town of Atmore, Alabama. According to one website I found, though, there are some officials at the state level who seek to block the Native Americans' quest to follow after the elusive American dream and make lots of that green stuff. I have to wonder why the Indians should not be allowed to claim their rights to the goodies, since they were the first ones here. They will, after all, be contributing to the dwindling tax base so greedily guarded and consumed by elected officials. There are not so many manufacturing jobs left to shore up that base anymore.

...And thus it happened that the Butterfly had no wife at all. He had been too long choosing, and that is a bad plan. So the Butterfly became what we call an old bachelor.

Saturday morning was devoted to unpacking a few things and taking a walk in the neighborhood. You can see the old reliable truck resting in our driveway not very far from the neighbors' maple tree, which was still looking colorful that day. After the brisk winds we have experienced the last couple of days, I do not expect to see too many of those colorful leaves left on the tree tomorrow morning. My little windmill palm seems out of place among these deciduous trees, but it just would not seem like Florida or home without it.

It also would not seem like home without this little guy coming to visit with his parents. Micah just cannot get enough of "guy" things like our lawn tractor. He insists on climbing up and pretending that he is in charge of lawn maintenance around here. If I had just half of his energy, maybe I could really get the lawn and gardens looking good. Our grass in Florida at this time of the year looks awful so Hubby seeded it with some annual rye. Maybe by the time we have to leave, we will have some kind of green stuff to admire here.

We had another turkey dinner on Sunday afternoon, believe it or not. This time, though, our son fired up his fryer in the barn behind our house, and we enjoyed the bird prepared in deep-fried fashion. It is surprisingly tasty and not at all greasy prepared this way.

Grandpa worked off a few calories pushing Micah around the back yard in another relic from our drilling days--the old workhorse wheelbarrow. It has carried more sacks of Quik-rete, Portland cement, and bentonite clay than we care to remember. I am glad it serves a more entertaining purpose these days.

It was late in autumn, with rain and cloudy weather. The wind blew cold over the backs of the old willow trees, so that they creaked again. It was no weather to be flying about in summer clothes, nor, indeed, was the Butterfly in the open air. He had got under shelter by chance, where there was fire in the stove and the heat of summer. He could live well enough, but he said, "It's not enough merely to live. One must have freedom, sunshine, and a little flower."

Our Peruvian lily and his beautiful mother love to watch Daddy cook. You can see our kayak behind them. We will be taking it back to Illinois in the truck along with a lot of other stuff I just cannot live without for a couple of years. I wish Micah and his parents and his aunt and a couple of kitties at home could join the stuff, but, unfortunately, these Beverly Hillbillies will be the only human objects traveling back to the Land of Lincoln. Somewhere in one of my comments on one of my posts, I remember telling someone that if wishes could move land masses, then Illinois would be on the Gulf Coast. Now that hurricane season is officially over for this year, I can say things like that without any fear of it coming true for a while.

And he flew against the window-frame and was seen and admired and then stuck upon a pin and placed in the box of curiosities; they could not do more for him.

Micah and I are fast becoming buddies. We both find humor in things we love--things like playing in the yard with Grandpa and working on getting our family back together again.

"Now I am perched on a stalk, like the flowers," said the Butterfly. "It certainly is not very pleasant. It must be something like being married, for one is stuck fast." And he consoled himself in some measure with the thought.

"That's very poor comfort," said the potted Plants in the room.

"But," thought the Butterfly, "one cannot well trust these potted Plants. They've had too much to do with mankind."

--from Hans Christian Andersen's short story "The Butterfly"--

From the Guileless to the Gullible

My grief, quoth I, is called Ignorance,
Which makes me differ little from a brute,
For animals are led by nature's lore,
Their seeming science is but custom's fruit;
When they are hurt they have a sense of pain,
But want the sense to cure themselves again.
And ever since this grief did me oppress,
Instinct of nature is my chiefest guide.
I feel disease, yet know not what I ail,
I find a sore, but can no salve provide;
I hungry am, yet cannot seek for food,
Because I know not what is bad or good...
...Great Alexander made so great account,
Of Knowledge, that he oftentimes would say,
That he to Aristotle was more bound
For Knowledge, upon which Death could not prey,
Than to his father Phillip for his life,
Which was uncertain, irksome, full of strife....

--from "A Dream" by Rachel Speght, 1621--

I did not take the picture of Micah with the gull. I think it was taken by either my son or daughter-in-law, who e-mailed it to me this week. I forgot to ask who the photographer was. It's a spectacular picture, either way. He looks like he is so close to it that he could hop on and take flight with the bird. Things have a way of fooling adults, who really should know better. My grandmother (dad's mom) was reported to say that babies know everything there is to know about heaven and earth until the moment they say the word "rock." After that moment, they have to relearn everything they have forgotten. I'm not sure where Grandma's theory of learning originated. Maybe it's a fusion of the Platonic versus Aristotelian theories, the nature versus nurture debate that has been going on for centuries and can be found in religious as well as secular writings.

Do not be fooled into thinking this beautiful red plant is harmless. TC (The Write Gardener) knows exactly what it is from experience. His tabula, if it ever was rasa, now contains a lot of writing about this plant since first becoming acquainted with it.

Hubby and I spent a lot of time outdoors this past weekend in Southern Illinois. Kinkaid Lake near Murphysboro, Illinois, holds a lot of memories for us. We used to take a boat to this part of the lake and dive for little trinkets, sometimes even finding gold rings and other jewelry. Young people--usually inebriated--are known to congregate in this part of the lake during the hot summer months and sometimes shed more than just their jewelry. This picture of the dam and spillway makes the spot look fairly harmless, at least this time of year. Probably after today, the dry side of the dam will look anything but dry. It has been raining steadily all day, and it doesn't take long for the lake to fill up from the surrounding hillside runoff.

When we lived nearby, there were frequent reports of slips, falls, broken limbs, and even drownings in the lake and particularly on or around the spillway.

I guess the natural beauty of the area is irresistible to most people who either don't know or choose to forget the natural danger always present there.

Hubby and I picked a good day to explore the spillway. We could choose our path on the rocks, carefully avoiding the ever-present slippery spots and pools of water.

After climbing up the spillway and crossing the barrier fence at the top, we walked on top of the dam to reach another path that might not seem readily apparent to anyone unfamiliar with the area. The Kinkaid Lake trail is all but forgotten, and it seems to be an intended outcome. Concrete barricades block most access, and signs--if they ever were in place--are no longer available to point the way.

To seasoned hikers and former residents like us, a lack of signage is no problem.

We found the trail and a view of the lake from a bluff high above it.

I thought for a moment that I had found some more gold treasure, but this time it was hidden in the trunk of a tree. The memories must have really been working overtime at this point on our hike. Of course, there is treasure in this fungus, if you care to think of it as a valuable, renewable resource on this planet, slowly doing its work of decomposing living matter.

I guess Hubby felt like he had to prove his youthful vitality after finding the fungus. You will never find moss growing on this rolling stone. Maybe fungus, though. We all have it in our bodies in some form or other. Lovely thought, hmm?

The day after visiting Kinkaid Lake, we took a shorter walk at Rend Lake and found this sign greeting us at the beginning of the bike trail. We have been warned, and now we know what that little sign on the trail we saw earlier this year was all about. I like to think that knowledge is power and a way for the imagination to take flight.

Seagulls, as you know, never falter, never stall. To stall in the air is for them disgrace and it is dishonor. But Jonathan Livingston Seagull, unashamed, stretching his wings again in that trembling hard curve--slowing, slowing, and stalling once more--was no ordinary bird. Most gulls don't bother to learn more than the simplest facts of flight--how to get from shore to food and back again. For most gulls, it is not flying that matters, but eating. For this gull, though, it was not eating that mattered, but flight. More than anything else, Jonathan Livingston Seagull loved to fly. This kind of thinking, he found, is not the way to make one's self popular with other birds...

--from Richard Bach's novella Jonathan Livingston Seagull--

Waves, Goodbye! Let Me Wait in the Tidal Pool

When I Consider How My Light is Spent

When I consider how my light is spent,

Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide,

And that one talent which is death to hide

Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent

To serve therewith my Maker, and present

My true account, lest he returning chide;

"Doth God exact day-labor, light denied?"

I fondly ask; but Patience to prevent

That murmur, soon replies, "God doth not need

Either man's work or his own gifts; who best

Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state

Is kingly. Thousands at his bidding speed

And post o'er land and ocean without rest;

They also serve who only stand and wait."

--from John Milton's Sonnets, 1652?--

For some reason, I have always loved tidal pools. They represent a rest from the onslaught of time, but they are only a temporary respite, a place to catch one's breath. They are in-between areas. Most of my life has occurred in the in-between or interstitial places. I am always moving, sometimes by choice and sometimes not, but when the movement halts for a while I wait. I wait in traffic, on the phone while on hold, in the airport, on the plane, on the transport van, in the apartment. This jellyfish I found on Pensacola Beach Friday, my last day in Florida, would probably rather be moving freely about in the sea, doing its work of capturing prey and devouring it. The high tide has brought it ashore and deposited it in this pool. It waits until either the next tide takes it back to the sea or until the pool sinks into the sand and the sun and wind begin their dessicating work upon it.


This little man waits for no one. Before Sarah and I headed to the beach for my last look at the sea for a few months, we stopped by for a visit with Micah and his Grandma Martha. She takes care of him at his parents' home while they work.

He refused to ride in the stroller and insisted on stopping every so often to pick some wildflowers.

He and his dad's old dog Rocky led the way the whole time we were walking. Rocky suffers from arthritis in his golden years, but once he gets moving, he seems to be transformed to a pup again. I guess he takes his cue from his young master. I have noticed that some of my fellow bloggers are talking about the change of seasons, autumn, and dying, though not necessarily dying in the literal sense. This new season we are in, autumn, is another interstitial place, and I think that is why I like it so much. It is a time to rest, gather strength, and ponder the next growing season.

Another on the Same

Here lieth one who did most truly prove

That he could never die while he could move,

So hung his destiny never to rot

While he might still jog on and keep his trot,

Made of sphere-metal, never to decay

Until his revolution was at stay.

Time numbers motion, yet (without a crime

'Gainst old truth) motion numbered out his time,

And like an engine moved with wheel and weight,

His principles being ceased, he ended straight.

Rest that gives all men life, gave him his death,

And too much breathing put him out of breath.

Nor were it contradiction to affirm

Too long vacation hastened on his term.

Merely to drive the time away he sickened,

Fainted, and died, nor would with ale be quickened.

"Nay," quoth he, on his swooning bed outstretched,

"If I may not carry, sure I'll ne'er be fetched,

But vow," though the cross doctors all stood hearers,

"For one carrier put down to make six bearers."

Ease was his chief disease, and to judge right

He died for heaviness that his cart went light.

His leisure told him that his time was come,

And lack of load made his life burdensome,

That even to his last breath (there be that say't)

As he were pressed to death, he cried, "More weight!"

But had his doings lasted as they were

He had been an immortal carrier.

Obedient to the moon, he spent his date

In course reciprocal, and had his fate

Linked to the mutual flowing of the seas,

Yet (strange to think) his wain was his increase.

His letters are delivered all and gone,

Only remains this superscription.

--John Milton, 1631--

I like the fact that John Milton seems intrigued and maybe just a bit disturbed by the contradictions imposed by time with its incessant shifts between movement and then stillness, work and then idleness. It should not be surprising that he felt that way. He spent most of his life on a rather large island, surrounded by the sea.