The yearly rhythm

Around New Years I try to live,
and I succeed exponentially
as the sun gets brighter
and gives more heat.

Then I collect myself.
About this time each year.

Some pieces have ended up folded over folding chairs, next to drying bikinis and worn, unread books.

I feel like I’ve left limbs:
the excited wave of a hand,
my feet over worn down stones,
my heart over again,
to shore after shore,
meeting after meeting.

The confetti glitters

until it’s caught by the gravity of fall,
and it sinks back down to me,
all out of order and organization.

I need to make everything big enough to fit inside me again.

The clean up happens when the evenings turn dark.
This is the inwards speaking,
writing down, painting,
time of making this experience make sense.

I pick up each leaf and look at it.

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