Old Soul with Microscope

So, say you lived so fast,
A year went by in a day,
And say you could live so long
You still lived as many days—

A few years to you would take
A couple of Earth’s millenniums,
And wouldn’t that be cool to contemplate?

You do. You know could pick out any year,
Like the endless small bones of a trout
Caught fresh from the stream of days
From any languid, hectic patch of a day.

As for events, as for the little things
That you keep fishing out as moments,
Your units of time are all equivalent,
Compressable, unpackable as sediment.

There’s no more or less of the past
Caught in any one moment or millennium.
It’s infinite. It’s just you, in your looking,
That notices what little you can in it.