Each one is a gift, no doubt, 
mysteriously placed in your waking hand 
or set upon your forehead 
moments before you open your eyes. 

Today begins cold and bright, 
the ground heavy with snow 
and the thick masonry of ice, 
the sun glinting off the turrets of clouds. 

Through the calm eye of the window 
everything is in its place 
but so precariously 
this day might be resting somehow 

on the one before it, 
all the days of the past stacked high 
like the impossible tower of dishes 
entertainers used to build on stage. 

No wonder you find yourself 
perched on the top of a tall ladder 
hoping to add one more. 
Just another Wednesday 

you whisper, 
then holding your breath, 
place this cup on yesterday’s saucer 
without the slightest clink.