I believe every human has a finite number of heartbeats. I don’t intend to waste any of mine. (Neil Armstrong)
I don’t remember when I wrote this poem, but the year 2020 didn’t exist. This year’s events would have belonged to science fiction. Yet, somehow, the poem fits. I pray hope and beauty live in the manure these twelve months have provided. Peace. For all.
ONE OLD LOST CALENDAR
I find an old, unmarked calendar.
Three-hundred-sixty-five blocks of freedom
promised in small pristine white boxes.
Twenty-eight to thirty-one on each page.
It had been a difficult year,
better forgotten in a dusty closet.
And yet, like soil that is no more than
ordinary dirt, the kind that grinds
under the fingernails,
hope and beauty
were planted into the grime.
And their seeds
continue to grow, inventing bizarre
and beautiful surprises.
terrypetersen 