THIS IS MY DAY
This morning I woke up inside a
of someone living in a skin of flesh.
And I had no escape, I was no Chwang Tse
who'd dreamt he was a butterfly
and asked himself when dawn came whether
Chwang Tse, had dreamt he was a butterfly
or that the butterfly dreamt of
as Chwang Tse, no, I was human,
a sturdy skeleton with thirty-two
two hands and a tragic intellect cursed with a fear of clocks.
Slowly, though, reverently almost,
gave my face a hand and zipped
thoughts up tight.
This is my day, I knew.
Here a mirror peers at astonished
There a butterfly breaks out.
And that is me.
© 2004, Menno Wigman © Translation: 2007, John Irons Poem of the Week: