NaPoWriMo 22
The Year in Review
It was the year the Red Sox started the season 2-6,
the economy tanked, and spring dragged its heels
with a wind that curled itself into a kind of brooding.
It was the year our lives exploded on canvas
like a Kandinsky painting: chaos, control;
chaos, control; a large, colored mass signifying nothing.
It was the year the word “maybe” pivoted
like a turnstile in the middle of conversations,
refusing all requests for wisdom or clarity.
It was the year you displaced silence
the way the body displaces water in a pool,
the way the bed remains sullen from your depression.
It was the year I believed everything alive in the world
got here by learning how to adapt. Even our shadows
rise in the still air, keeping their miseries to themselves.
It was the year the Red Sox started the season 2-6,
the economy tanked, and spring dragged its heels
with a wind that curled itself into a kind of brooding.
It was the year our lives exploded on canvas
like a Kandinsky painting: chaos, control;
chaos, control; a large, colored mass signifying nothing.
It was the year the word “maybe” pivoted
like a turnstile in the middle of conversations,
refusing all requests for wisdom or clarity.
It was the year you displaced silence
the way the body displaces water in a pool,
the way the bed remains sullen from your depression.
It was the year I believed everything alive in the world
got here by learning how to adapt. Even our shadows
rise in the still air, keeping their miseries to themselves.
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