Three Hundred and Sixty-Five Days

Pocketwatch_cutaway_drawingThree hundred and sixty-five days
Endless endings and pine fresh starts
Exploding in dust, they pass by
And we ticker tick count them off

The inconstant metronome of
Three hundred and sixty-five days
Unremembered, skin that touched skin
And eyes that met and fell and met

The ways in which we sacrificed
Our minutes to laughter and sleep
Three hundred and sixty-five days
Is almost nothing, almost all

Winnowed by loss and ecstasy
We sing out loud so we can’t hear
The final ticking seconds of
Three hundred and sixty-five days

by Heather Emme

To read all the #verseday poems, click here. To read my twitter poems, click here.

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