The Day You Feel

You get through the day. Your legs carry you, lungs keep time.
You drive your daughter to school and drive back.
A friend calls; you half-listen, checking the screen.
At dinner you swallow but never taste.

Now feel it: the garden, your daughter ahead of you, laughing.
A friend’s voice and you hear what it carries.
You eat and the meal is a gift, not a task.
You lie down and your body asks for nothing.

What you do not feel, you do not have.
What you do not have, you did not live.