Some Days

Some days you are a stone
some days you are a black shroud
flapping.  Some days you are
an unsmiling mouth
that is silent and does not speak.

Some days you are a shut door.
Some days you are forever
in challenge.  You disagree.
Some days I am not me
and I do not do.

Here, the air is sweet, and cordial,
birdsong loud, and the high
voices of children echo
across the field.  Up there

is an infinite view.  Down
here, the car wheels turn
on tarmac, occupants
preoccupied, look worn.

Some days you are thrawn
and twisted out of shape.
Some days my spirit fails
and my heart gapes.

The evening sun is hot
and the air sweet; after,
we go back to the city:
we have schedules to keep.

How infinite the thought - it
ranges free over the near and far
my skin is more lined
than it used to be, but I am
on a par with all my kind -

I am better at life
than I used to be: no end
to the mind's learning
and the heart's capacity
to bear.  I remember the laughter

of my mother, and her sweet face.
All the days of work she
bore us - all of the grace.
I feel odd without her,
out of place.  Out of element,
out of water, with a thirst
I cannot slake.  He said

the last shall be first
and I know the head of the
queue.  Many things have I 
seen on the way through
the millstones' grind -

I am fine powder
I am sparkling dust at the feet
of God - diamond-bright.
Today you were near
but in a place
I could not find:
the stone, the black shadow
over my shoulder, frowning
and unkind.

My past has more light
than the here and now
I live in semi-darkness
in my mind: cowed
by Fate and Circumstance
I know the outer reaches
of need, the rocks of
blight.  But I have been loved
and I love, every day,
all of our air, the flower
of our time that will last

forever, the hour, the
minute, despite drouth
and scorn, all the harm,
I am here
to put my past to flight.

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