It is a miracle that you survive
day after long day in the cold,
under rain, through whining wind.

Once, as snow fell, a smirk
edged your lips but it slipped under
by the time I looked firm.

I ask, are you a ghost?
Yet day after long day, you hold steady,
build moment after moment

in your heart, storing each millennium
and then washing them clean
breath after steady breath.

I observe everlasting
gazing your way, a mirror,
mortal, aching.

I take in one whole day
and bring it now to you
to launder.