Letter to the End of the Year
       

Lately, I am capable of small things.

Peeling an orange.
Drawing a bath..
Throwing the cat's tinsel ball.

Believe me, this is not unhappiness.

Only one question —
why this layering on of abeyance?

Though it is winter inside of me —

                            there is also spring and fall.

Yellow tulips in need of planting
root in a basket by the door.

Tonight, mortality seems cloistered in a pinecone

                            close-windowed, remote.

What was the peak moment
of your happiness?

                            And how did you know?

For weeks, it's been oatmeal,
the Internet, an Irish shawl.

I realize, I am growing older
and stranger.

            Please, don't misunderstand.

I am still impatient
still waiting for symbiant and swoon

            the litter of blue-gold—

                              a one-time constellation:

Now, before you go.

Copyright © 2010 Susan Rich All rights reserved
from The Alchemist's Kitchen
White Pine Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission