mysteriously placed in your waking hand,
or set upon your forehead
moments before your eyes open.
today begins cold and bright,
the ground heavy with snow,
and the thick masonry of ice,
the sun glinting off the turrets of clouds.
through the calm eye of the window
everything is in its place
but so precariously
this day might be resting somehow.
on the one before it,
all the days of the past stacked high,
like the impossible tower of dishes
entertainers used to build on stage.
no wonder you find yourself
perched on top of a tall ladder
hoping to add one more.
just another wednesday,
you whisper,
the holding your breath,
place the cup on yesterday's saucer
without the slightest clink.
billy collins.
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