make today

a walking shade once asked the sun, 'of what is today made?'
and replied none, the sun but shone, as not a heed was paid;
so wandered still, the walking shade, in search of today's own,
until he came to icy chills that suffocate the bone.

though he had none, he thought he did, and so he shuddered so,
but yet he asked, for his answer, against the winds that blow;
'oh, gusty gales, from winter's heart, do you know of today?'
'and what makes it, i now must know, it's secrets that betray...'

before the shade could go on thus, the winds would howled reply,
we'll tell you this, but not until we've traded eye for eye;
'yes, surely so,' now cried the shade, 'whatever that you may,'
'as long as it is mine to give, i must know of today!'

with gleeful stride and sordid smile, the winds requested this:
a half-ounce heart, a one-part soul and then eternal bliss;
'oh, cruel, thee fate! how am i to beget any of those?'
'i'll never know what makes today, not ever, i suppose'.

but maybe in the stead of shade, you've seen the answer now -
what makes today is neither what, or who, or where or how;
and if you think it's made of when, then surely you're wrong too,
what makes today (and evermore) is nothing else but you.