Day At Hand
I would unfold my hand
As I show it to you,
Steady, fistful of sand.
You'd trace creases time drew,
Dedicate direction,
Lean ever closer, still,
Tracing my skin's section,
No collected landfill.
Psalm pilot, calm zealot,
Future's moments' to read,
Psalm pilot, psalms yet writ,
Promises sowing seed.
I came for what I'd find,
Taking note of the time,
It's keeping All in mind,
Not buried in some lime,
These rendered positions,
So grainy from the start,
Not guessed suppositions
From my straightly-aimed heart.
Arriving at moments,
Such joys they're soon to bring,
The pebbles aren't torments,
Though some can and might sing;
First, tell me what's to come,
Scene of my unclenched fist,
True fingers' numbered sum,
For day's at hand we kissed.
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