by Wynn Everett
Once the day confirmed, counting forward
then backward, it could be the last one
not that what was coming wouldn’t be better
but sometimes people exaggerate.
Lit a candle in the chapel, then block to block
looking for slivers of relief from
overhanging limbs, only to be hit by
the reality of summer and my swelling feet.
It was the end. Or beginning.
Every Saturday since more miraculous than the last.