December 31

Cold and snowing.

The opening pages forgotten,

then the sadness of my mother’s death

in the cold, wet chapters of spring.

For me, featureless text of summer

burning with illness, a long convalescence,

then a conclusion in which

the first hard frosts are lovingly described.

A bibliography of falling leaves,

an index of bare trees,

and finally, a crow flying like a signature

over the soft white endpapers of the year.