Some days whiz by, with
sunrise almost meeting sunset in passing.
But then there are those days that stagger past: a slow unraveling of
time. Clocks tick louder and taunts
with enjoyment of lingering seconds.
What day is this? Fast or slow?
How to measure?
Is time measured in chores
needed to be done? Is it counted out by songbirds
in citrus trees?
Is time meted step by step
from start to destination? Cars passing on
their way to and from?
Such weariness is passing
of time when it is slow and reluctant.
Such exhilaration when whirling creativity stirs up wells of thinking.
What day is this?
