The Height of Our Days
A day, stacked upon another,
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
Thursday is the
that teases our growlings.
Friday is a filet mignon topped with
garlic herb sauce,
along with crisp fondant potatoes,
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
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,
that went astray.
And so, we ask God to
that gaze at the
height of our days.