December 31
By Ted Kooser
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.
Copyright © by the owner.
