What day is it?

This morning I strain to know
what day it is,
and finally speak, Tuesday
May third
in the year two thousand and five:
a small cage
thrown over this day.
But what day is it for the tree bark?
the earth crust?
the frog egg swelling in the pond?
What day is it in the dream world
I just emerged from?
And what day would the baby leaves answer
unfurled to their first rays of sun?
What day indeed but this day,
magical pulsing being of a day
into which I just now come.


gg murray