The days are not good or bad,
as I am so wont to determine.
The calm hour of reading.
The silly lisping in the office.
The steamy silence. The red spatula.
The quick update in the hall.
The shine of the floor. The sweaty tortilla.
The cold sheets.  The soft blue shirt.
The soft blue eyes. The perfect crock. 
The long aisle to housewares.
The drive through Euclid Creek Park. 
Why do I label my life,
when all that is here is simply here,
so abundantly giving and giving?