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
I remember having a wonderful time listening to her read in Santa Barbara. I love the message of this poem (for me), that a new year isn't only a time to leave past behind and start anew but also to strive toward what we haven't yet accomplished, i.e. " only the things I didn’t do
ReplyDeletecrackle after the blazing dies."