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



  • Facebook Social Icon
  • Twitter Social Icon
This site was designed with the
website builder. Create your website today.
Start Now