My ex-time

There is a certain number of days in one year
 I used to count them all
In an endless mysticism I used to follow their procession
Wondering, a little out of breath

When my  glittering fifth wheel will ever reach the sanctuary

Then I slowly started to make mistakes in the counting
Each new day I was waking up as a time complete neophyte
Too bad, when I woke up, were my first words

 I bought a small plastic Christmas tree
I thought it would give me some essential marker.
When daffodils bloomed at its foot so bloomed my perplexity

I began to think of days as a modifiable quantity
I said loud, 876, when will I start the recording?
Then, 290 and 56, are they 567 in one year?

 But it never gave me the right date
Monday is useful
And sometimes I could have needed it
I decided to belittle  the countdown importance of time

To find its consistency

In sheer desperation I made it relative
It wasn't that disturbing
To make it flexible, straight, curved
Abundant, deserted, abstract, palpable
What a chance there is no time lost.

January 2011