Life can be stretched across the calendar,
A parade of appointments and anniversaries:
Years reduce to singularities and
We sense seasons in their debris while
The days cycle from work to rest.
So, one Saturday,
Tuesday married Friday and
Started a family on Thursday to
Find themselves uneasy come Monday.
All but the youngest are
Stuck between the steps
In sequence, off-balance and spiraling.
Together, we count the hours until
Sleep can pass them with more speed,
But we don’t get enough sleep, and
Who can shut their eyes to this(?):
Seven years of two lives,
A fraction of a fraction.
Even if eternity is a myth, and
Life itself is numbered,
We are infinitesimal.
Let’s talk instead of love,
Quotidian and irrational;
Its numbers never repeat, but
We find patterns to recognize—
Like seven and its luck or fate.
What should be ascribed to something
So crafted, designed, and refashioned(?)
If not every day or season,
Then certainly the catalog of events
That define our years.