The 365th Day

[originally published in Hedgerow, # 19]

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.

Forcing spring

in midwinter.

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