Each Day Alive

The desk calendar
where I turn a page each morning
reveals no secrets between
yesterday and tomorrow. I try
to focus on its use and write
notes on the pages, addresses,
telephone numbers and memos
that assume the future will
be true. I know that somewhere
a plow turns earth, a seed sprouts,
a stalk rises—a resurrection
by faith the earth has always kept.
And somewhere a man grows
one day older as he turns his
calendar. But it keeps secret
the day . . . yet I don’t pry
or guess, and refuse to wish back
my want to hear a mermaid sing
or see the rose of sharon bloom.
A gray-haired man digs out
dandelions and shares the interest
of a robin on nest duty that sings
and chirps about the miracle
of eggs.