Nothing Twice
Nothing can ever happen
twice.
In consequence, the sorry
fact is
that we arrive here improvised
and leave without the chance to practice.
Even if there is no one
dumber,
and you’re the planets biggest dunce,
you can’t repeat the class in summer:
this course is only offered once.
No day copies yesterday,
no two nights will teach what bliss is
in precisely the same way,
with exactly the same kisses.
One day perhaps some idle
tongue
mentions your name by accident:
I feel as if a rose were
flung
into the room, all hue and scent.
The next day, though you’re
here with me,
I can’t help looking at the
clock:
A rose? A rose? What could that be?
Is it a flower or a rock?
Why do we treat the fleeting day
with so much needless fear and sorrow?
It’s in its nature not to
stay:
Today is always gone
tomorrow.
With smiles and kisses, we
prefer
to seek accord beneath our star,
although we’re different (we concur)
just as two drops of water are.
Wisława Szymborska
(from Calling out to Yeti
1957)