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January 1, 2017
Burning the Old Year
by Naomi Shihab Nye
Letters swallow themselves in seconds.
Notes friends tied to the doorknob,
transparent scarlet paper,
sizzle like moth wings,
marry the air.
So much of any year is flammable,
lists of vegetables, partial poems.
Orange swirling flame of days,
so little is a stone.
Where there was something and suddenly isn’t,
an absence shouts, celebrates, leaves a space.
I begin again with the smallest numbers.
Quick dance, shuffle of losses and leaves,
only the things I didn’t do
crackle after the blazing dies.
"I am happy for her that she wrote that. Last night, friends and I scribbled wishes on wispy sheets of paper. Gossamer parchments. We lit them and they rose up as they burned, the ash falling slowly back down so it could be caught, carefully, and the wish could be made real."Moar Poetree | New West Havens
Posted by gerardvanderleun at January 1, 2017 1:27 PM. This is an entry on the sideblog of American Digest: Check it out.
Your Say
Gossamer wings of wispy bits of ephemeral nothingness burnt to crispy shadows of things no one dreamed,except in their onlyness. As the ashes of shuffled leaves lost in the fire raining down softly on mothra-like wings,we take to the air...
But mostly,Congratulations,Mr Vanderleun,on winning the Salvador Dali Award for Most Creative Blogging! Very well done,Sir,your site is a wonderful place.
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