Every Day Is The Same, But Different

It is not under the hands of the clock

nor in the sky of my daughter’s eyes

it was not in the taste

of that prickly pear we found

in that shimmering desert

 

not in the electricity that thrummed in James Brown’s feet

sizzling on the stage not ten yards from us

or in the heron, regal and watching me studiously

on the canal bank each morning

 

it is not in shuddering heartbreak

nor in the folds of his old coat

or those tears on your cheek

there, to be caught by my thumb

 

once, I thought I had found it

hidden in a snowflake

but, it melted on my palm