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.