There are some days, some rare days,
without commerce,
several hours all next to each other
without worry or undue undone thought,
when the things that want doing
seem simple and almost done,
Time not standing still, but slipping with grace,
slowly, intuited one moment to the next
and the air seems infused,
oxygenized
and the clouds form and pass,
the leaves breathe lightly
The things of the world not like anything
but themselves
When quarrels are musing and lead
to kisses
and nothing breaks, and there is no surprising news
and everything seems sufficient
and full of and—
There are some days.

Virginia Weir