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More, More



This day is one of many.
I will make something of it, or not.

Everyone else knows this too.
Everyone walks along the path beneath my open window.
Everyone waits for the signal, then steps out into the street.
Everyone counts the hours on a Wednesday in late May.
Everyone waits for a message from somewhere.
Everyone moves in one direction, or another.

Toward life, or away.

Almost everyone, unless you count the children.
And yes, please, let us count the children.
Let’s pretend they’re everyone and every one like them.

How does it feel to look up? Remember.

This day is the one.
I will make something of it.
I will be here and be thrilled by it.
What more?
A touch?
Yes, a touch would be wonderful.
I would also like to eat a few times and then rest,
or the other way ‘round.
Please don’t let me sleep too long. There is too much to see.
I am curious about each place and thing,
the knowns, unknowns, and in-betweens.
I want to see them all, forever.
Again, again.

More, more.

This moment is long and easy,
and I am rolling in it,
just as the robots hum into their next silent function,
just as the night blooms simmer silently in bended light,
just as the children jump gladly into one wild chromatic world,
then the next one,
then the next.
Mindlessly.
Eagerly.

Love, you made me once and again.
Fear, I do not know you and you will not find me here.
Happiness, you are invisible to me because I know no other.

This day is the one.
I will be something of it and it will be something of me.