to miss a day

so many things are done at any time,
in doing things we constantly remain.
you sing, you saw, you sow, you sift, you swing
at dawn, at night, in twilight of the day.

but there is this to feel the solemn loss
of those spectral and elusive rays,
the only work that can’t survive the dark–
those of the paint and brushes mortal ways.

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