It's never scientific, after all.
There is no checklist, no empirical process
no necessary weather forecast or
emotional state of being.
It's not a particularly sunny day, now
the rain has settled into stagnant pools among
the dead leaves, and the sun hides behind dull
clouds like the word you can sense but never find
when you need it.
My feet are cold, and my house nearly emptied.
My mother must have turned on the Christmas tree
before she left, and the dogs sleep beneath it like presents;
however, Christmas is still to come.
Today is no one's birthday, nor the anniversary of
a sweet gesture, so far as I can remember.
It's almost lunchtime, and no one has died,
or proposed, or graduated.
But most of our problems stem from being too
inwardly focused, I think, so just because I can't find
any socks, or see sunlight shatter in beams through clouds,
or make note of this day as when I found true love
doesn't mean that it hasn't been a tear-soaked,
laughter-filled and unforgettable day for someone else on
the other side of this earth. So I put my glasses on
and decided today was as good as any day for a poem.
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