This is the morning of the first day;
nothing much remains of yesterday
except some dust in the clay on the wheel,
a flew flecks of shadow in the gray.
This is the morning of moving on;
what happens now is already gone,
chaff on today’s mown lawn blown by a breeze
that has no memory of the dawn.
This is the morning of here and now;
in past soil turned under by the plow
its seeds take hold, somehow, and make their way.
No pause for reminisce is allowed.
This is the morning of the new day;
what can remain of yesterday,
except the faint scent of decay that hangs
above fragrant, new blooms as they sway?
This is the morning of what will be;
let all yesterday’s visions go free.
What good their subtlety to you today?
Past boldness provides no guarantee.
27 MAR 2017