Matching Tempo

At tempo far too slow, the years dragged by,
the dance all pause and halting reposition.
While young feet long to skip and dance and fly,
they submit to rules and repetition.
Forward at uneven rates, they dance.

Was ever time the partner we could match,
the years in rhythm with the level of our pep?
A sudden change of speed our balance would snatch ,
when we had barely gotten into step.

Dancing partners so unmatched, we close the dance;
some moment wisdom says, "Let go; don't strive."
The tempo moves along. Regret? A chance?
Will like timing come while we're alive?

Could sadness then incite the backward glance?
Saying, "Just throw caution to the wind and dance."