Buying a Calendar

I buy it for another year--
a folded paper raft of hope
to ride to freedom on Friday
and dances in the local square--
with bills I tender to the river
of the till to show I am not lost.

But I must already be lost
if a press release about my year
is what I bottle for the river
of time, selling how I caught hope's
brass rings by toeing to the square-
edged prophecy of each Friday.

So on end of business Friday
I'll be as godless and as lost
as now, one uncovenanted square
slouching out the mobius year
with what seven gods give of hope
to one sinking in the river.

Belief does not keep the river
from growing new trees on Friday
to show I cannot schedule hope
or set appointments that aren't lost
in the coursing of the paper year
that never runs inside its square.

The Ancient of Days holds the square
of gold rays that free the river
to run its living course and year
and promise me every Friday
that the gnomon doesn’t get lost
walking its figure-eights of hope.

Fifty-two rows may channel hope
and pencils circle each square
in acts of counting what is lost
and found flowing in the river
to be forgotten by Friday
and give to life another year.

Papers get lost, but the river
floods the local square on Friday
with mud and hope for another year.

--Eric Howard

Eric Howard, author of Sinner, maintains this site.

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