1/11/11

Each time we come upon a date like this,

I wish I was a numerologist,

For there would surely be no mystery,

That I could not solve through arithmetic.

With arcane knowledge, I'd interpret signs,

And these predictive digits would divine,

By rituals of old, the future told,

From mathematic fact and magic trick.

And yet, the way these numeral's values twist,

So often will resemble randomness,.

Like cotton dragons fly through clouded skies,

They only seem to be, because we wish.

For on this date to which fate is ascribed,

One man wins fortune, yet another dies,

And who can say which way the numbers play,

Toward outcomes that would merit specialness.

No, I shall call the numbers as they are:

A simple trace of where we've been so far,

And hope for you, your fondest dreams come true,

On this, or any other numbered days,

And urge we guard to not exaggerate,

As we revere these fleeting times and dates,

Lest we forget the gift of every breath,

And, through our careful counting, loose our way.