That a Day Begins, Leave It to the Small

A poem for Wednesday

A tree reflected in a puddle of water on gravel
Matthew Casteel

genius of planets & stars, rotations & spinning,  
meteorological time maybe, geologic maybe. &

what we call ordinary, call human, has little to do  
with the fact that morning arrives after night. If

there is anything to be found these months, let
the clouds say so, point the way. Today someone

said museum, said gallery, said offstage in the wings,  
said in the stacks of the local library, said a bridge

away, up the road, said pockets of, corners, on  
a street, in a neighborhood, at an intersection, said

ancient—those trees, said aerial photographer of  
fires, & evacuation, rising water, said emptied out,

& crowded, & somewhere. Though I could hear  
lawn mowers & plumbing & others in other rooms,

each phrase made itself an elsewhere. I have to keep  
myself from saying everything at once, from crying,

from ending the call before they’ve gone though  
time’s run out & now we’re late on another day

that isn’t one except that didn’t we wake, try  
again, say & say? Didn’t we?