Each day's a gift, I tell myself.
My heart knows that I cannot count
Upon tomorrow, or next hour.
It's hard to keep this truth
Clear in my head. But when I do
It makes each moment
Gleam with glory. A Sanskrit text
Says yesterday's a memory
And tomorrow but a dream;
Look to this day. And when I look
I see my wrinkled arm a miracle,
Its workings far beyond my kenning.
I hear the hum and buzz of my tinnitis
As if it were a special bonus
Not given to just everyone.
I smell the musty stink of rotting leaves
Beneath my rose and think
What sweet perfume it is
Of life at work re-making,
Through death to nutrient
To root to branch to fragrant flower.