Days

I skirt the edge of this day

Sometimes I dip my toes
I wade in a little at times
Mostly, I skirt the edge
Dawn and dusk, the cartographers
And me, and the assuredness
Of our hazy nondescriptness
Together we define each day
Together we circumscribe them
A blind man’s fingers
Describing the lip of a bowl

I trace a crag or a promontory
I exult in their shapeliness
Now I wade in again
Too far this time
My feet now dangle
Anchors desperate for a floor
I fear I may begin to swim
I hasten back

Perhaps another day!
There have been many on this road
Surely some more will be along