Recent Days

Recent Days

 

What word would serve to capture this sliver,

this tiny slice of existence, these recent days?

Not "productive," not shimmering with the sweat of labor,

nor "adventurous," lacking the spice of unpredictability.

 

Perhaps "meandering" fits just right,

like a river that knows no urgency,

ignoring the pace of clocks and calendars,

winding through the hours with a languid grace.

 

Or is it "reflective," as in the way a pond,

still in the arms of twilight,

holds the gaze of wandering clouds and a coy moon,

mirroring their light more than it generates its own?

 

Or maybe "unremarkable," that gray word,

which, like a well-worn sweatshirt, doesn't impress,

but promises a familiar comfort,

the soft embrace of routine and repetition.

 

Yes, "unremarkable," might just be the one—

not a word to make headlines or to carve into stone,

but one that allows us the quiet nod of recognition

for days that pass, not with a bang, but with a whisper.

 

And yet, within these unremarkable days, treasures hide—

like the moment when the morning light

stops you on your way to fetch the paper,

and turns your hands to gold. 

 

Or when the hush of the evening

stirs secrets within the trees,

who share them with the breeze,

who then whispers them to you.

 

So "unremarkable" becomes our word,

a soft-spoken guest at the tip of our tongue,

reminding us to look closer,

to find the poetry sewn into the fabric of our days.