The Gift

Each pink dawn
a distinct opportunity,
each tawny dusk,
time to take stock.

Each day is just a day
and nothing more.
One full turn of the seasons
merely marks the supreme indulgence
of walking this ground,
sentient and alive
for that many days.

Clocks and calendars being
weak and inconsequential attempts at
laying out Life,
one can easily ignore, or purposely obliterate
their dogma,
refuse to submit to their tyranny.

But the march of dawn an dusk continue.
Life is transitory and elusive.

This much is known—

only the borders are defined.