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.