NOT EVERY DAY
It isn't every day I think of you.
Some days slip by like worn prayer beads
or like bubbles that glisten in the rain
and roll down the black-top parking lot
outside my office window.
Most days are filled with the music
of the work-dance and just slide by unnoticed.

It isn't every day 1 think of you.
Some days are filled with watching a column
of leaf-cutters or absorbing the drone of bees
that curtsy on red clover blossoms
half-drunk on the nectar of their own gods.
I refuse to remember there was a time
before the ache of empty arms.

It isn't every day I think of you.
Nor do I think you would want me to.

Dewell H. Byrd
Eureka, California