Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday…

Is it already Wednesday?

What are these days?


Stepping stones?

Rushing past you.

You past them?

It’s already… Thursday?

You’re dizzy.

Jumping from anchored boat to anchored boat.

You can’t stop. They won’t stop.

Tripping from stone to stone through the week. The months. The seasons…

I can’t believe it’s already September!

… as you open windows to the pre-October breezes.

Just yesterday you were collecting the logs…

I’ll build a fire against the cold winds of February.

January, February, March, April, …

They won’t stop.

September? I can’t believe it’s almost October!

Anchors that ground you or burdens that mire you in the quag?

I still didn’t… Where did the months go? 

Stepping stones that guide you or obstacles that tangle your legs?

You can’t stop. They won’t stop.

I can’t jump high enough to clear the bramble of August! I still didn’t…

You curse the Monday.

Where did the weekend go?

You scowl at Wednesday.

I’m so far behind.

You clench your teeth through the Friday, lists, plans…

Dizzy you jump through the hours until you collapse at the feet of Sunday.




They won’t stop.

I want to stop! 

You cling to each day, power poles rising from the rushing river,

You flounder, grab the next, then flail to the next…

They won’t stop. You gasp for oxygen.

Limp, you collapse in the rush of the waters, colliding against the days.

Boom, that was Monday.

Bump your head against Tuesday.

Wednesday knocks the wind from your lungs.

What are these days?

They won’t stop. From stone to the next stepping stone. Day to day, and over again.

The days and weeks are swallowed by the rush of September. And it’s December and the months are swallowed by the year. And over again.

To where? Round and round… in circles?


Begin again.

Energy of your arms. Push yourself up. Monday. January.

This time…

Throw out anchors of your own!

This is my Monday. I call it D-Day. Tuesday is Q-day. Hello, Wednesday, it’s B-day. Today we Blog.

Stand steady on your stepping stones.

Listen up, September, this is my year. River be damned. 

Plant your own power poles above the crashing waters, the waters that won’t stop.

Steady your boat in the current. Dig the oars in the stream to make the days your own. Claim the power of the waters as you navigate through the stones, the seasons, the year.

What are these days?

Embrace the quiet peace of a moment you make your own, find your flow in the days.

These are my days.

©Pennie Nichols. All Rights Reserved