Stroke by stroke, lap by lap,
we move down the lane.

We sit, breathe, thoughts
flitting through like birds.

Step by step our feet meander
or stride or, for some, run.

Pick up the bat, throw the ball,
let fingers press keys, whether

clarinet, flute, typewriter,
keyboard. We practice every day

the routine everydayness,
whether conscious or un- ,

getting in the car, drawing
the seatbelt across the chest,

soaping the flatware or
installing it in the washer,

and, if we are lucky, leaning in
for the day’s closing practice—

kissing someone we love
good night, sleep tight,

may we awaken to practice
living tomorrow.