Each minute doesn’t
have to count
but it has to matter

Each waking eye
Each phase of the moon
Each dawn and
rain
it’s bound to come again
but never with
just the same flourish
or shape or pattern.

It doesn’t have to count
but it must be
acknowledged

Each hair brushed
just so, each sizzle
in the pan and
coffee ground and
alarm sounded
it’s the dance and
melody of normalcy
but not mediocrity.

It doesn’t have to count
but it should be appreciated

Each sigh
Each staring at the
wall and
backache and
hangnail and chore
forgotten
it strikes in the cheek
like a sinus headache
but it dissipates.

It doesn’t have to count
but of course it matters

Each daily ritual
Each daily error
it’s a rhythm, cycle,
slow creek in an often
parched wood
but it persists

It isn’t a counted forward march –
It is a sinewy, strengthening web
of rich matter.