06/03/2024
π΄Poem of the Dayπ΄
ππππ ππ πππππ
ππ‘π«π’π¬ ππ‘π’π§π°π ππ₯ππ¬π’
What's Monday: all of yesterday fading away among the clouds
of the sky, dreaming of night.
Tomorrow approaches closer
in tentative gaits;
no one, nothing, can reorder the flow of the rain of your dawn.
What's Monday: this morningβ
lush sunlight, tentative and warming, the start of the day
already in a hurry with anticipationβ
the vagaries of Texas weather.
What's Monday: hope wants to hold
our attention,
dragging our feet like a poor little boat
between the two realities ordered by destiny
before the death of expectation.
Whatβs Monday: the day before Tuesdayβ
the one who passes through like a bee,
probing time forfeited in a hurry to embrace a new day, following the wind of life.
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(π) ππππ
