I’ve enjoyed writing for many years. I'm dedicating more time to it in retirement.

Here’s a Day

A hand appeared from nowhere

Connected to nothing

Proffered a lump of clay

“Here’s a day”

A faint voice

An aura expanding

Then contracting

“Make of it what you wish”

Then the presence

Was no more

I took the offering

Turned it over

And over

In my own connected hands

Could not remember

Ever

Seeing one of these before

Receiving one as a gift

Or knowing one as one, anyway

And would there be more

How do I handle this

Treat I’m bestowed

Should I carve it

And craft it

Should I pocket it

And run

Away from the sun

As it ascends

Transcends

Dark confines

Turns itself

From growing arc

To glowing ball

Above the line of land

That

From where I stand

Behind me

As far as I can see

Is approaching so quickly

It will easily outpace me

So no

That’s not a plan

To conserve

Preserve

In a pouch

This malleable thing

Neither charm

Nor possession

Nor everlasting

Like a gobstopper

Uncle Willy used to make

Indeed

It already seems smaller

The shape remains

Unrecognizable as something else

Indescribable as what it is

But it recedes

And I need to heed

What I’ve been told

It’s softer than gold

But more valuable

By far

That no jar

Or compartment

Or sack

Or receptacle

Or safety deposit box

Or vault for riches

Can hold

But I’ve been told

So I know

And I believe

Now I must go

And make good use of it

Before it fades

To naught

Or worse

That hand reappears

From nowhere

Connected to nothing

And the quiet voice

Nearby

That belongs to

The shrinking

And growing host

Asks me the question

I fear most:

“What did you do with your day?”

© 2021 greg cain

Comments

Ruby Jean Richert from Southern Illinois on January 16, 2021:

Your poem has meaning, Time is precious, let's make it count.

Bill Holland from Olympia, WA on January 16, 2021:

This made me smile. What, indeed, will I make of this day. Let's find out, shall we? Beautifully-written, my friend.