When I was young, someday was forever —
a tunnel so long I couldn’t see the light,
let alone the end.

As I grew older, it became a memory: someday,
someday I would, if I could.
A fading echo as I began to live, to love —
then loss came, and someday became a dream.

Like the shadow of a mountain, someday
was etched behind my eyes.
There was a plan, an idea, a hope:
someday I would, if I could.

These days, someday feels so far from me —
like the memory of a crisp apple on the tongue:
its sweetness burned in,
but hard to speak aloud.

Someday — would I? Could I?
What does the future hold?
Will I ever find that someday?

Or — more deeply —
is this my new someday?
An image I could never have imagined
without the life, the love, the loss?

What is someday?
A dream,
a regret,
an illusion —
or a seed, still buried,
waiting to bloom?