Days are the harvest of time. Each, like a segment
of film-strip lit with its own light and,
for all the seriousness that fill them,
they are as delicate as the dandelion seeds that stream in
their billions through a bright summer’s afternoon.
Turn your palms down, look at the parchment
on the backs of your hands; a certificate of life.
You carry it; it stays with you, ends with you;
a reason to celebrate for today all our days are this one day;
it is an exhilaration to be.
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