Christmas came and went in a blur. It was lovely, and we gave and received muchly, all with deep gratitude and joy, as is befitting this winter celebration of the dying year, and the world's rebirth...
Now this year is almost over, and I, for one, am glad. Everything has turned out well, but still...it's been hell, and I'll be glad when it's behind me.
I'm looking forward to January, that cold, grey month of thin light and long shadows and the low, low sun.
Burning the Old Year
Letters swallow themselves in seconds.
Notes friends tied to the doorknob,
transparent scarlet paper,
sizzle like moth wings,
marry the air.
So much of any year is flammable,
lists of vegetables, partial poems.
Orange swirling flame of days,
so little is a stone.
Where there was something and suddenly isn’t,
an absence shouts, celebrates, leaves a space.
I begin again with the smallest numbers.
Quick dance, shuffle of losses and leaves,
only the things I didn’t do
crackle after the blazing dies.
