Tamára Lunardo

Author & Editor

Monday

29

February 2016

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Written by , Posted in life, poetry

There are no extra days.

No matter what the calendar
or the motivational meme says,
the average life expectancy in the U.S–
and, really, you can’t assume too much–
is 78.9 years. So you’ve got about 28,818.225 days
to do this thing called life, give or take.

(A number so small I can say it out loud:
Twenty-eight thousand, eight-hundred eighteen, point two-two-five days.
That’s it.)

On the day you die, you will have lived
the very same amount of time
as if Gregory hadn’t tweaked Julius’ calendar.
Each of them tried brilliantly, yet failed,
to make up the difference between our need
to stack blocks on a spinning sphere
and the 365.242216 Sisyphean days it takes
to bring us right back where we started.
(We’ve allowed ourselves to think we get
0.007784 extra days, if you’re counting.)

It comes to down to mere moments.

You do not have an extra day
to invest or spend,
the imagined master of your own sundial.
When the shadow falls, it’s time.
So if you’re thinking about what to do
with an extra day that doesn’t exist,
do the only thing there’s time for
while the sphere still spins.
Forget the damned blocks:

Leap now.

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