The day comes at you.
“Look at me!” it says,
bursting with sunlight and blossom,
making it almost impossible to see
the dirt below the forsythia—
yellow banging at your eyelids—
the pink of tulips, blue of Mexican tile
calling, No, me! Me! I’m the prettiest!
It wakes you up early, the day calling out, hello!
You didn’t really want to sleep, did you?
and keeps you buzzing—a coffee of a day
and three-margarita dance floor jumble in the evening.
When you stumble home at last,
there’s a moment of can I read myself to sleep?
and oh, did I forget ...
But wasn’t it fun, lost in the pretty bauble of the day,
the disco-ball of the night sending
shivers of light over everyone’s makeup?
and just one quiet dream deep in the dark
asking, where have I gone?
—Sarah Webb
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