it says and we listen
and then don’t; pace
ourselves and rush,
blush at the thought
of another sunrise.

it moans and we groan
that we’re too cold or too
hot or not just-right-tepid,
temperate and ready for
the next balmed breeze.

we count down to the new
and release the old, swept
into the closet next to last
year’s bones and the stones
we chose not to throw.


Prompted by Poetic Asides

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2 Responses to 365

  1. Sherry Marr says:

    I love “swept into the closet with last year’s bones.”

  2. So good how you wrote this in such a fast pace to echo the progression of time. I’m out of breath!

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