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| Photo by wenzlerdesign on pixabay |
Do not bury the year too soon,
cover it with drifts of forgetting
never to see the light of day again.
It is not dead just yet. It breathes
life into me still with its sunrises
and sunsets attached to a year, a number
we have construed. Still it is and still I am
even though the sun now rises
lower and lower in the sky, and we rush
closer and closer to holy days and feasts.
Time becomes swift as the bird taking
the corner of the house so fast it
grazes the window, keeps flying undeterred
to its destination. It did not die,
will not be laid to rest this day.
©2019 Joanne Young Elliott
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