The Height of Our Days

A day, stacked upon another,

and another, 

42,000 times,

will reach the height of our days,

then come down

at yesterday’s passing to

be opened in its box, a feast of mystery.

We dig our teeth into days,

bend over with handkerchief on lap,

devouring a tapestry of textures,

never getting full.

They leave a daze, departing in blurs as we

work through them.

To some, Monday is

cod liver oil.

The weekend has stopped

its train, and we were hoisted off

cars filled with conditioned air and buffets.

To others, Tuesday is the wince in

a stomach that growls for a

Friday three days in the distance.

Wednesday is the traveling smile,

the day that rolls us down

the hump toward 

Banquet Hall.

Thursday is the

rush-order appetizer

that teases our growlings.

Friday is a filet mignon topped with

garlic herb sauce,

along with crisp fondant potatoes,

creamed spinach,

and, for dessert,

cheesecake drizzled with

raspberry sauce and topped

with a white chocolate mousse and edible gold flakes,

a feast into the weekend.

But seldom do we see

that weeks end.

Days place roses in our lenses,

at funerals or 

in newscasts,

so that we only see

blood trickle on other sidewalks,

other hospital bedsides.

These appointed days, they

bind us in borders we cannot step over.

They are numbered for each

man before the Great Day of judgement, 

when we will account for

our opened boxes,

the yesterdays

that went astray.

And so, we ask God to 

give us 


that gaze at the

height of our days.