Worlds Poem by Max Reif

There's a world when I rise
on a Saturday morning,
a dawning world stretched out
like an infinite ocean before me,
and I, Henry the Navigator at the wheel
venturing out into its virgin air,
and the light coming on gradually
as if it doesn't want to startle my eyes,
the hills grey-blue with touches of pink
gleaming from the windows,
the bare-branched trees' expressive arms
reaching up, perfectly, neutrally brown,
like the antlers of thousands of deer,
and I, the first man on the first morning again,
infinity already gained as I roll
on to successive infinities,

and there's another world
climbing the steep grade out of bed,
another impossible weekday waiting,
rewards so interspersed with difficulty
as to feel barely worth my effort,
another day that calls
for skills I do not have
and don't know how to get,
(we all go through period like this, don't we?)
and I wonder how that vast
ocean of a Saturday morning world
shut down into this tight fist,

and whether that virgin land
I entered that day
was but a sweet mirage...