Counting the Days

Each day, a precious bead on a rosary,

A sacred turn of a prayer wheel,

A golden day kept in the storehouse of memory,

A hectic day crowded against its cousins,

A quiet days, slow as syrup, longing for distinction.

These days are shells marking time’s passing,

Marks on the convict’s calendar,

Scratches knifed upon the cell wall.

These days mark our fabulous lives,

Each one turned, honed by sun and moon,

Each one peopling our seasons,

Each one precious beads on a rosary.

--September 8, 2013