Momentary
It is always Sunday morning,
November,
with the yellow gate half-open,
the few yellow flowers dying,
the steep path from the front door
under an endless grey sky,
and the question never, never to be asked.
On this day - there is no other - the child,
face rosy from the morning air,
standing to pull off his thick blue coat,
may answer the question that is not spoken.
The reason for life is to live it,
not yesterday nor tomorrow,
but now, Sunday morning,
November, always.
November,
with the yellow gate half-open,
the few yellow flowers dying,
the steep path from the front door
under an endless grey sky,
and the question never, never to be asked.
On this day - there is no other - the child,
face rosy from the morning air,
standing to pull off his thick blue coat,
may answer the question that is not spoken.
The reason for life is to live it,
not yesterday nor tomorrow,
but now, Sunday morning,
November, always.