It was, as they say,
a lovely day. One of those
you’ll look back to and say
who could have guessed
what was happening on such
a lovely day? Not that anything
that followed negates the beauty 
of the light on the street that day, 
the angled shadows between
apartment buildings at six PM,
the words of people in the street
unaware of how sorrows were rising
even as it seemed like hope was rising
high enough to drown them. 

It was, as they say, a perfect day —
and to be honest it was,
because it did not hew too closely
to some impossible standard
where nothing bad happened at all.
Instead we got the perfect mess of 
lovely stewed with horrible,
not that we knew what was coming
that day. It took a while to show. 

It was, as is said in the books, 
a perfect day. They teach it
to this day as such;
they do not sugar coat it,
they make it mythic and exacting
in its impact — but the light,
the temperature, the chill in the breeze
that kept it all comfortable?
It’s at the center of what I recall,
and the reason I’ve not trusted
such clear daylight
ever since.