Not Today
Not Today I have become the one who forgets. Calendars lined up side by side on the Rosetta Stone of my desk do not share information with each other or with me. I have become ubiquitous in the watery world of calendars, promising to be in three places at once, inviting others to join me, all the mes. I say yes to everything, everyone, and then backstroke through the nos that inevitably follow. “Early onset” I say, hoping to disarm truth with truth. But onset of what? Maybe it is ubiquity. Maybe I do watch small birds chasing foam on a Gulf coast beach while their prey burrows down or tumbles in the surf. Maybe I do listen to the poet in the concert hall with more wonder than envy. How does she break it all open and build a book from its parts? Maybe I do look out from a high school stage at all those teenage faces full of plans and say something about the fluid nature of time that sets small charges in the dams of their urgent present. All at once! All at once, while I grab sonar messages, pretend to write them down, mean to write them down as soon as my head breaks water. As soon as oh, the sun behind the fire hall the deer camouflaged by woods the moon above the university the effortless water! S. Robbins
Sherry Robbins 
Oh this is exactly IT. THIS. NOW
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