You tell me to live each day
as if it were my last. This is in the kitchen
where before coffee I complain
of the day ahead—that obstacle race
of minutes and hours,
grocery stores and doctors.

But why the last? I ask. Why not
live each day as if it were the first—
all raw astonishment, Eve rubbing
her eyes awake that first morning,
the sun coming up
like an ingénue in the east?

You grind the coffee
with the small roar of a mind
trying to clear itself. I set
the table, glance out the window
where dew has baptized every
living surface.

The poet should be a housewife having a hectic schedule and being occupied with household chores. Her husband urges her not to waste time and put off work as if it were her last day. But the poet desires to live as if it were her first when she could be like an innocent girl seeing the world in all astonishment and in new perspective. While her husband is grinding the coffee and making annoying noises, the poet looks out the window through which she desires a new life.

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