Sunday. . .
It’s chill. . .
it’s peaceful. . .
it is fun–

a day to live–
it’s now. . .

twixt dawn
this morn
and set this eve–
right now. . .

if we would pick
a day to live
in which
to our own life
body, and heart, and soul
do give,
it is
the absolutely only one. . .

though we may wriggle
and resist,

the best and easiest way,
moment by moment,
is to live forth
and simply choose it,

for, once
clock’s hands their rounds have spun,
we must succumb
to the facts
of sands of time,
with their steady swoosh
through neck
of hourglass so fine–

Whether we’ve lived much
or not,
the day is shot,
no matter what remains from it
that we believe
we haven’t got,
by then,
it will really be too late. . .

And we’ve no choice
but to its setting
to capitulate. . .

For, at that time,
the hope
of that one piece of life
we thought we
shoulda coulda oughtta lived,
we’ll simply have to lose it.

But, if we chance
to see another day,
we get another opportunity
to do things differently–

if only
we do choose it.

This entry was posted in Days of the Week, Poetic Musing (Longer Poems), Poetry and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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