Days/Time

Days like drops through the fingers slipping
slowly at first, but through allowance quickening
down and away, into wind, into rain
into ice, into earth, into the fray
towards finality marching, uniformly
into the pire. Each of us is a calendar stained
with ink. And when sifting through the piles of ash
when scattered on the breeze, alas,  does ink remain?
Amidst the grains of sand and stone, there lay bits of ash
each containing a thousand days alone.