nine hundred ninety nine days
and still the traveler presses on
the day at its dawning cares
not a whit for the traveler’s joy or weariness
the day arises with its appointed tasks inscribed
across the heavens
the noonday sun remains steady
and implacable, dictating its orders,
heard and heeded by those
inclined to timeless rhythms
at its conclusion, all come to rest
within the stillness
of the movement of the day
the weary traveler who sought
to alter the day with her own superfluity,
rubs her aching feet
surrenders her achievements
to the corridors of temperance behind the moon
and rests her slumbering head upon
a declining calendar
only on the thousandth day
does the one thousand first
peer above the far horizon
-phyllis boernke © 2013