Parables to Spare

The car rattled. The head hurt.
The light sank down in the grass.
No one ever asked the day

What the day thought of itself.
The day reviewed its story,
Its origins in the night,

Its gradual blossoming,
The hardships of the morning,
The optimism at noon.

And here it was, after noon,
Almost evening in the grass.
By that grass, a car rattled,

And someone rested a head
In an open palm. But that’s
Not my story, the day thought.