Our elders used to say, Today is not
the only day. By which they meant there's
tomorrow, and a string of previous days,
years even, against which to reckon
the immeasurable. Call its underlying
spirit what you want—hope, ambition,
rue; a rallying—but concede it allows
a kind of ongoing revision. Not the best,
not the worst (not yet); not merely middling
effort but something that might not even
have a name. How patient we could be in
our impatience, how content with our dis-
content. Instead of start completely over,
just rest; then let out a little more thread.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
