On my watch as the hands move in their regular orbit of moments
now is infinitesimal, a value approaching zero.
In my diary there are numbers marking the passing days,
dates to be kept, and birthdays to be remembered.
I remember my mother telling me “tomorrow never comes”
my daughter, Lila, now teases her brother on tenterhooks
that his tenth birthday will never come
and yet like tectonic plates slipping it does.
I come home to a room of discarded foam letters
for printing on paper with splashes of paint,
cloth bags of dolls legs and silver sweet wrappers
my four year old daughter jars in my head.
I struggle with a load of bundles and boxes
that come from the office to be juggled and stacked.
I ruminate on stairways from etchings of Escher
on thought trains to be scheduled on busy rail tracks.
Somewhere in a room of brilliant white walls
made of Japanese gossamer with pliable oak floor
my eyelids can flutter like falling plum blossoms
on the side of mount Fuji rolling down to the shore.
Convexly and concavely I struggle to balance
put my left shoe forwards on the rightwards side.