Days
Days
Mortality.
Days waiting for the final fall,
steps harken to the call,
bone and flesh and blood and
nakedness
and all that falls to mortgaged walls.
Days we must repeat.
Days stored like fields of wheat
grown on breaths of grains.
Stored on tomorrow’s shelves. Walls
lost to yesterday’s halls,
hung with sealed success.
Todays straightened by what we profess
amidst the clutter and mess.
Weathered houses kept at any cost.
Grains waiting for Godot to show
with magic shovels. Or
swallowed whole by something
out of Kipling’s books. Or
blown willy-nilly. Or
rhinos charging head bent for
nothing there. Nothing.
Or
kitchen curtains strung with sparrows.
Caught by first light.
Singing.
Swimming.
Swinging.
Days of vibrant, verdant victories
sifting grains
through fingers in our gardens.
Look to the sparrows.
They know their days.
Ask them why they sing.
What they sing.
You will know your days.
Copyright © Mark Ackerson | Year Posted 2015
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem.
Please
Login
to post a comment