On A Written Day
Teach us to number our days aright,
that we may gain wisdom of heart.
– Psalm 89
The lilies are dry spent,
the flesh of summer is full,
a sparrow darts and drops,
and before and behind me
the numbered pages of the day.
It is nothing to record
but only express
the birthed thoughts
growing into the soul,
slow-cutting my being
from the shape of the world.
Am I alone?
Do I lean on a rotting fence?
The green mold leafs,
the grasses rise—
If it grows evening
and I am still here—
if it grows evening
and my words do not stay
then I have poorly spent
the lifetime of a day.