full calendar

The fullness of days.
Crashing in on us in waves,
then receding like a tide
tied unpredictably
to a moon whose orbit
does not lend itself
to making calendars.
- first full, next night
a waxing crescent, then
suddenly new, empty
of light. Out of sight.
Then, inexplicably
waning gibbous
all out-of-sequence,
but we don't mind.

We're mischievous.

We can mount impromptu
festivals for every face
it happens to show.
We will run out,
to wherever the waves crash
and dive,
be borne back in on whatever tide
it brings.
Who knows when our days will again be this full?
Of so many things

Oh, we know from personal,
painful, recent experience
that sometimes a racing fullness
is a fullness of incoherence.
Still - a fullness is better than an emptiness, isn't it?
It will be,
if we make use of it
- to see, to use, to allow us
to select and pick and choose
which things rushing through
we should seize, focus on,
and develop. Which things are true,
and which things are ours.
Eventually, keeping more to these,
letting the coarser or worser
or less precious delicious things
rush away, run away past us,
wash away - the things we have kept,
plucked from the fullness of days
to tend and to keep and to hold
within us as ours, regardless of future tides -
These will tend us, and keep us,
and hold us. These will be cause
to rejoice.

but, if
all we do is let
the fullness rush in,
rush past us and keep us
dizzy and busy through days,
probably it will begin
to pall at some point, and become
empty noise.