These are the day of sick babes and mothers.
These are the days of heartaches and troubles.
These are the days of dry bones walking.
These are the days of prophets, psalms, friends, and what ifs.
These are the days of crashing and shaking, hurting and waiting.
These are the days of responsibility and futility.
These are the days of chaos, confusion, disillusion, dissolution.
These are the days committed.

These are the days of  falling: short, behind, out, in.
These are the days of not enough and less than, fragile and beautiful both.
These are the days you wish you never lived, but find life and love's growth
                                                                                  — the soil fertile because it laid fallow.

These are the days to pine and put behind.
These are the days of trusting, of stumbling and rising, of ruin, repair, and pioneer.

These are the days of fighting, resigning, and resisting.
These are the days to be quiet and hopeful and want wisdom.
These are the days to breathe in and breathe out, and rest heavy head full of doubt.
These are the days of hope for I don't know what.
These are the days to steer who knows where.
These are the gray days of cold rain, of winter into spring.
These are the days of iron gate, an early friend, and holding horror.
These are the days committed
                                                                                                            — against tomorrow.