Were I to write about the day that is ending

with the purpose of either edification or enlightenment

would I even begin it this way?

Examine through filters

the most minute of impulses and actions

to measure the growth—

like the growth of grass and vines—

of this sequence of my destiny?

Riffle through the discarded

thoughts and impressions

that for a moment pressed on my nervous system?

The names I have supplied

each object and person

that penetrate to reverberate

all down my optic nerves?

Question whether what is breathing now

is the flesh that is framed around my bones?

Is there an alternative identity

for what’s breathing now?

Other than the social construct that hums

like a beehive full of honey

and is built from the excretions of bees?

Shelter of the intertwining crowns

of brown to green towers

flexing water and nutrients upwards higher

and higher through wooden fibrous

vascular pumps pulled by evaporation

from the leaves. Water and nutrients

pulled one hundred feet or more or less

to darken and to give weight to the crown.

walking all day