Perfect Day

Today was one of the best days of my life.
Nothing of any importance occurred—
I cut my finger on a paperknife
And marvelled at a busy hummingbird
Plucking out wet moss by a waterfall;
Broke bread with friends and shared a glass of wine;
Wrote this poem; swam; made love. That’s all.
Why should it be some days erect a shrine,
A cairn, a white stone day, in memory?
Is it, as Buddhists claim, a lack of need,
Or want— or simple serendipity —
The perfect flowering of one small seed?
   The wise will say our frames are none too pure:
   How many perfect days could we endure?