Would that I could know
just how many of these
(unnumbered) days there were
yet lent to me.

Then I could know
whether to cast these
odd, strange days
aside, unremarked;

or whether to lie here,
awake, watching these blurred
pencil lines of trees against
this gray winter night sky,

until I can determine
how to write it differently.



5 thoughts on “wrought

  1. How difficult it is to treat each new day as a gift, and to realise it may be our last. How easy “I’ll do that another day” becomes permanently undone; untried; an opportunity lost for ever.

  2. I’m not sure that any day should be cast aside, unremarked. I think it might be worth lying awake to contemplate why the day was strange…to make sense of every moment.

    • That’s kind of my point. Can sense, in fact, always be made? And is it always mine to make?

      I’d like to feel I could throw a few in the crapper every now and then; t’would take the pressure off, if you know what I mean.

      • Can sense be always made? Well, I guess not. It’s worth lying awake for a while, but I agree that sometimes /often / mostly it’s not ours to resolve. Speaking as one of them, there’s a lot of crazy people out there . . . doing and saying things which don’t make sense in any reasonable frame of reference.

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