I think the date is something like always, or nil,
or nothing or everything, and all,
and everything that ever was and everything
that ever shall be.
I think the date is zero or infinity.
I think we always were
and always will be.
Our date is white.
Our date is black.
Our date stretches way way back.
I think it’s somewhere in the future
where we’ll start again
for the first time
again for the first time—
and say countless thousand somersaulting yesterdays
that go so far, they end up in the day before.
Our date’s an open door.
A circle, O.
A daisy chain.
It’s June, December, March and May
divided by October and July.
Our date is every day.
Our date is now.
Our date is then.
Our date is what and when.
It’s every number in the alphabet,
and every note of silence
at poem’s end.
copyright © Melinda R. Smith 2012