This is the day we do that summing up.
Annoying, isn’t it, the way
we tally and sort the year’s days
into the things –or people—we like and those
that caused us pain? We inventory
and discard, if we’re smart, whatever
no longer works, or what
carries no joy. We have this need
to take stock, as though we
were running a giant store full of
stuff, boots and gloves, or jars
of face cream and scented soaps.
This year let it alone,
think instead of the faint yellow blush
on the forsythia. Soon we can snip
its branches, hammer the stems
against the stone walk, set it all
in warm water in an old jar.
The small blooms, and then
tender green leaves will unfold
in the corner window.
Reprinted from Hedgerow, # 19