It is inevitable that one month comes to an end
so another can start, whether you’re ready for this to happen
An artificial division–28 days, 29, 30, or 31, so what?–
comes to feel natural, like the ribs that mark off
a single stalk of celery, or
those blasted sunflower seeds or cells in the honeycomb
(they’re trending now, Fibonacci numbers and, in general,
heavy breathing over the beauty of math).
How many plums are in your bag?
How many years
does each of us have?
One month slides into another, melting, indistinguishable,
at least for the last few days of one and first few days
But I can’t deny that sometimes I’ve heard the door shut,
the sun meeting the earth as softly, as undeniably as
eyelid touches cheek.
For the PAD Chapbook Challenge, Day 30. Prompt: an inevitable poem.