Today would be better because I’ll suffer less,
cry less seeing the date on the calendar once every four years
like a less frequent blood moon
or a high tide that catches the sea cucumber off guard
leaving him exposed to science teachers who mean well
who go to the shore with their students
for a historic poke and prod of a hardly-ever-to-be-seen event
or a string of beads that pops
all over the floor after class when a pile of books in hand catches the thread
and down, down, down they go
like a whirlpool stirred up with floodwaters no one thought would spill
over well-built levies that were tested to withhold
even more pressure than what nature forced
on unsuspecting residents beside themselves, beside the fast current
taking away their lives and livelihoods before their very eyes,
but it really is less like that because,
other than the even years divisible by 400,
every four years that day will come
with calculated predictability and immeasurable unpredictability,
so maybe instead of sadly mourning each year a little less
the stored grief floods, the fragile security then exposes
all the raw uncertainty left throbbing, gasping, and reaching
in the naked beach where the waters recede
further and further away into the depths beyond the beyond.