06/13/2026
I’ve noticed, to my chagrin,
that time is not the constant thing
we learned so long ago.
A number set,
a rule to trust,
to fill our sums
and feed our dust,
with dreams ahead
and distant dread,
and all we thought we’d know.
But some days stretch
like winter roads,
with miles and miles to bear.
They test the heart,
they bend the back,
they ask if we still care.
Boredom pulls
the hours thin.
Labor drags
the daylight in.
Duty lays
its heavy hand
on every passing breath,
until the tired clock itself
seems bored half sick to death.
On days like that,
I wonder why
a soul would ask for more,
why anyone would seek the pool
and step beyond the shore.
Why choose a life
that does not end?
Why beg the years to stay?
When even one long afternoon
can wear the will away.
But then there are
the other days.
The golden ones.
The brief.
The years that soften
in the hand
like sweetness past belief.
They melt like cream
beneath the sun
before we’ve had our fill,
and even when
we’ve tasted joy,
we reach for more joy still.
Those days of coming home to her,
to Jenni at the door,
when something in my weary chest
remembers what it’s for.
My soul revives.
The room grows bright.
The weight begins to lift.
And I can say,
for one more day,
that life is still a gift.
On days like those,
I understand
why forever calls.
Why anyone
would want more time,
more light,
more love,
more all.
And then I think
how empty space
could almost all have been,
how many doors
had not to close
for me to enter in.
How slim the thread.
How strange the spark.
How near we came to none.
How many never reached the light,
or reached it on the run.
I wonder why
one child is warmed,
while one must learn to hide.
Why some are born
to bread and song,
and some to fear inside.
Why some days open
like a hand,
and some days close the wall.
Why some are asked
to carry life
before they stand at all.
Still, I return
to that old place,
that question, strange and small.
Not whether days
are long or brief,
not whether time
is grace or grief,
not whether endless years would be
a mercy or a wall.
I come back to this:
why the days at all?
Bryan Brouwer
WilliamstonArt.Etsy
