A Year of Sundays

The first contemplating a cliff
At sunset and then turning back,

Wondering what could happen next,
The rest a highly detailed blur,

Beautiful days, many Sundays,
If only you could remember.

Can you? Yes, you. Sit in a chair,
However young or old you are,

Alone, without acquaintances
Or devices to help prompt you,

And begin with a week ago.
From last Sunday, what have you saved?

And from the Sunday before that
And before that? A week of them,

A month of them, a year of them
Three-hundred sixty-five of them,

Recall’s not really for recall,
Is it, not for contemplation.

Memory serves to navigate
Whatever it was just happened

And to anticipate what’s next.
But sit down a while anyway

To try to remember, even
If you’re only just past seven,

You’ve lived irrevocable
Hundreds of days labeled Sundays,

Each crammed with innumerable
Acts and molecular details.

You were there, experiencing
And then forgetting as you went,

Like a wave criss-crossing the waves,
Continually dissolving

And reforming while happening,
All you’ll never recall you were.