Today is an old day,
leaking
the passed night's rain,
almost with its dawn already
yesterday,
faded replicant of yet another supplicant.
I'd throw it away, used-up as
a broken comb, a flared match fired once to
light something gone,
except
the birds
greet it with such celebration,
singing their
soft explosions
above the autumn seeds.
September 2025
This poem is written in the 55 form, that is, in exactly 55 words excluding title.
