Paul Day Biography

Work.
There is always work to be done.
Real work, busy work, work I make for myself.
But it doesn’t need doing right away.
...

Like a fly I flew into the trap,
Though I swore I never would.

Like a fly I took a path,
...

Right now, the wind blows through your branches
And you moan.
Your branches are bare and have lost color
For another winter.
...

Mud caked a little boy’s bruised skin
And filth dripped off of him.
His mother sighed and shook her head
When he first appeared in her sight.
...

Butterfly, you graced my eyes for just a short while.
Yet you remain so vividly and beautifully implanted.
And upon your memory I smile.
You’ve left an impression that will remain so sacred.
...