Every Days

Every Days / Linda Lobmeyer

These are the days which we will never
measure nor remark upon. The winters
without blizzard, cold without ice. The days
that whittle. We do not recognize the
knife carving away slim slivers of
ordinary time. The shavings fall
like days from a calendar when without
reason we notice that what we held tightly,
now, softly we behold. Unable to pinpoint
the hour or the day or the month when what
was shapeless and without form became
important and true. If we are fortunate,
we will say, It was a warm day, but
a cool morning. It must have been winter
because I do not remember leaves. We
will consider the new thing that was made
by the quiet hand of passing days, and
the new grasp we cannot now live without.

Every Days: Copyright 2021 by Linda Lobmeyer. All rights reserved.

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