January

Thinking about it, I
tend to sprinkle

seeds, gardening weeding, 

writing cooking and all the 

other ways of trying to leave
something of

me behind, so that I am part of the

past that is to come.

I shake a couple of cookery-covered 

fingers’ bits of flour,
spice, onto the floor, 

rubbing my hands together

anticipating the relish of spring’s dirt, 

coming soon, recalling how I 

squish lupine and peony pods for later

planting, trying to tell about all of this 

rich messiness in the words
stored up in memory, while 

trying to figure out the hardiness 

to brim the coming storms.

I may never do all the things I

said I’d do, may never tick 

some certain devilments 

off the master list

off the list

but I can try like bloody hell.

Now night time signals that it 

settles in new ways, 

they’re vibrant,

those interstitials

and along the paisley of

the way the world looks to me

there is latitude for new

imaginings at every sinew I can 

think about, my own

Our own

just the wilding

all of it, our own, for us

looking at the moon out there tonight

it seems we are expecting storm, but 

I say that we’ve been in it
and it speaks to us 

tho all it asks is that
we stay the course