Memory of a poem

My mother clipped a poem out of the newspaper and put it on our refrigerator. I don't remember when it was put there. I was young, but I could read (seems like it was always there). It stayed there until we moved after she remarried (I was 13). I don't remember the title. I remember that the author was Unknown. I used to wonder who wrote it. I read it often enough that I still remember it.

 

I have only just a minute,

Only sixty seconds in it,

Forced upon me,

Can't refuse it,

Didn't seek it,

Didn't choose it,

But its up to me to use it.

I must suffer if I loose it,

Give account if I abuse it.

Just a tiny little minute,

But eternity is in it.

My daughter called me yesterday. She said that she asked her baby if she wanted to go to MeMaw's while she ran to the store, and was told, “No, Oma. Have a picnic with Oma.” (I am Oma.) It was too cold, and too close to supper to go to the park (as in the picture). So we had our picnic in my yard on that same tablecloth with forks, and plates of red and yellow grape tomatoes cut in half, and little pieces of honeydew melon. She loves to stab the pieces with her fork. It was a fun snack, and a welcome interruption to the day. 

Spend your minutes with who (or doing what) is important to you as much as possible.