Dow at fifty thousand — a brass bell in the dawn,
Numbers like constellations stitched across the lawn.
Towers of ticker-tape shimmer, a river grown wide,
Each digit a footstep of fortunes that bide.
Celebrate the summit: glitter, champagne, and cheer—
Yet remember the slow winters that taught us to steer.
For markets are seasons, not whims of a day;
They yield to the patient who learns to stay.
Time in the market is soil, deep and warm,
Where compound roots gather sun through storm.
Small seeds of saving, autumns of thrift,
Turn into forests through steady gift.
Timing the market is a keen, shifting wind,
Promising treasure to the nimble, the pinned.
But the clock has sophistry, cunning and guile;
A miss of a moment can cost many a mile.
When Dow strikes fifty thousand, it’s headline and horn,
But histories are written by mornings reborn.
The richest returns are not struck by chance,
They’re quiet accrual — a long slow dance.
So raise your glass to the milestone bright,
And anchor your plans in the patient light.
Invest with a compass that steadies your heart:
Time in the market — the truest of arts.