Tuur Verheyde
One Day
A day can be dreaded
Drudgery: up early, home
Late, time tightly woven,
And tightening with every
Clipped gasp for desperate
Reprieve.
A day can be broken
By sudden mishap or miracle,
Be cloven in befores and afters,
In cherished or reviled pivots
In a subplot of our greater
Narrative.
A day can be a steppingstone:
Quietly, imperceivably advancing
Our trajectory towards some
Imminent unseen.
A day can be a flatline:
Floundering, pounding wearily
On the closed doors of adventure,
Whiling away time unremarkably,
And by no great boredom
Or excitement be entirely
Forgotten before its close.
A day can be an afterglow
Or aftershock: spending early
Hours in a shaking daze, gathering
The smattering of recent past,
Picking up bits to seam into
Some prospect for the new
Configuration.
A day can be an act
Of pathless play: regaining
From stolen hours, discovering
Pleasure in passion or even
Dispassionate unproductivity,
Feeling the body-creak, the sense
Flood, watching the crisp caress
Of possibility slip between
Our fingers, and letting it pass
To relish the rustling of life
Unfilled, yet intensely felt,
Fast unfolding.

