The Days Converge
It does not matter this day
what I thought of doing, or being
on any earlier day.
Small aspirations spread their wings
to form the formless.
Yesterday was overcast
it kept me pacing the room
as pensive as a caged lion.
I began to count regrets
like iron bars.
On a day,
I laid beneath the golden corn,
a flaxen-haired ladylove beside me.
Our open hands flew low and high -
we touched the sky.
Both recollections merge now
as the flowing wind-music
of high green stalks.
Reeds filled with the songs
of an ever-changing river.
Today the sun
may be beating down,
but it’s not beating me down.
In autumnal fields
the corn is ten thousand dances
of tall shade.
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