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A Day, Too Soon

by Scott Kurtz

Iwonderwhatitsliketobe a tree—
with roots a healthy shoulderwidth
and branches reaching skyward in
attempt to reach the light to reach
the sun to reach the oxygen,
with sloping fields below to gaze upon
and see, with weathered eyes,
whatever it may be a tree can see.

Iwonderwhatitsliketobe a stone—
with water whirling round in pools
and breaking liquid surface rules
and alwaysnevernotalittle
causing ripples on the supple
ceiling of a stream,
with little room to move,
but lots to dream,
about whatever it may be
a stone can dream.

Iwonderwhatitsliketobe the wind—
who runs along the ridge
of every hill and every valley
searching every nook and cranny
for the definition of a life
ephemeral and full,
asking every leaf and butterfly
the everpresent question: why?

Iwonderwhatitsliketobe the day—
so rigid in his structure
but so lazy in his way,
who always spoons his porridge with
the stirring of the sun, and makes
believe there's very much of him at noon,
but when he's done, and gone to bed,
and left the darkness in his stead,
it's much too soon.