Waiting for something to happen.

Waiting for the other shoe to fall.

Standing there, not believing the warning signs

“Danger: Falling Rocks”

“Thou shalt not surely die”

The days fall away unmarked,

Assuming nothing happened.

On this day I was born.

On this day I was married.

On this day a child was born.

This day marks a death.

And here another.

On this day I was raised up.

On this day I was cast down.

The days of grand events we mark

remember and celebrate

or mourn in somber anniversary.

But there were days unmarked,

forgotten in the long waiting,

on which no trumpets proclaimed

no violins moaned and cried.

Surely it was in those forgotten days

That love began to grow

or love untended began to die.

It was in those unnoted days

That some beauteous talent of ours

began to be revealed or surrendered.

It was in those uncelebrated, unmarked days

That beauty dawned

and hope,

and the dim light of purpose.

Or that darkness began to gather at the edges.

The great events are marked.

It is recorded when they burst upon the world.

The beginnings, the hidden days

Which swayed things this way or that

are missed or forgotten.

Give us this day our daily bread.

It may be in this unremarkable day

that the reason for our being

stirs and stretches,

Prods to see if we are awake.

Edward Frost