The days, as they pass by one by one by one, are not identical. They have their own happenings, their own experiences. The days are not the same, but they share something. One might say they rhyme. My life is a rhyming pattern, rarely broken. AAAAABBAAAAABBAAAAABB. I think I have Henry Ford to thank, and I offer him such gratitude as I have. These days in poetry the pros rarely bother with rhyme for some reason. But these days, my days, share a quality I call rhyme. Monday and Doomsday and Everyday and Tuesday and Someday and Holiday and Yesterday and Friday. And as I drive down the same highway or sit in the same conference room or talk to the same people or listen to the same music I think to myself, "Haven't I felt this same déjà vu before?" And then I realize it's not the same. There are variations, however slight. "It rhymes," I think to myself. "Today rhymes with yesterday."
And then I think: The sun and the moon are far more different than we have given them credit for. We treat them like sisters, one for the day and one for the night. The sun and the moon, however, have never met. The day and the night, they both belong to the sun, shining down either light or shadow. The moon lives only to sing to the water, day or night. But we treat them like two sides of the same coin. We are perspective's fool.
Like yesterday. Like tomorrow. I don't know.
Hello, friends. I hope you're well. Are you?
Later. Love.
