What are days?
They are dumb routines of work and play
quietly trapping us
between dawn and dust.

What are days for?
They are for nights to rest
before unleashing the dark
from unknown places in the heart.

Where do days go?
They go the way
of spent happiness and unwanted grief
trailing the wake of a silent breeze.

What do days mean?
Answering this question
sends the poet to his pen
and raises the prophet to his feet--

both scurrying to their graves
across the field,
armed with words and gods.