One of Those Days

Each day I am in love with something, in full wonder at what is given. Yesterday it was partly some sparkling Mozart but mostly, five minutes earlier, the announcer’ remark “Mozart’s coming up in five minutes” Today it’s the beginning of a sentence in a book about Tu Fu — “In the spring of 761…” — regarding several short songs, an ancient fresh breath. I realize that the museum next door is chock-full of bones and the perpetual birthdays of rock, that millennium shift a few pebbles, and that mostly everything is forgotten, but I’m enthralled with the spring of 761, hold it in my arms all night. Although Mozart dies young And Tu Fu’s hopes turn out false always, I can’t resist singing to myself in the knowledge of unknowable springs, musical as arpeggios of cherry, those immortal blossoms and above, those particular clouds passing away. Robert King (2002) One of Those Days, The Missouri Review, volumn XXV #2, pg.58