What is the arm of the day?
These distant, somber, mountains?
Or these boats, held up by the green of the bay?
Or the round sunset that holds us?
What is the arm of the day?
Is it like the mind of the day,
And the thinking we do,
Which invisibly covers us,
During long, pleasant walks,
Walking here? And far away?
Or perhaps it’s me,
Thinking what I would say,
If I saw you on a mountain trail,
Or sailing with a party of three,
A sprinkle of rain on the bay.
What holds me inside a typical day?
What holds me from no longer seeing you?
Inside the arm of the day?